


Alpha Hale and the Omega Debacle

by WillowTroy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Past Rape/Non-con, Phone Sex, Scent Kink, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, just a hint of daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 86,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23098033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowTroy/pseuds/WillowTroy
Summary: Peter wasn’t raised to be a Pack Alpha, but after a rogue Hunter attack and the death of his sister he’d stepped up. No one was more surprised than him (except maybe the Druids. And definitely the Hunters) when the mantle and responsibility suited him so well. Perhaps too well.The Hale pack has had time to heal, and they’re ready to move on, in more ways than one. Of all the alpha responsibilities, Peter never seriously considered his job regarding the omegas in the pack until now.And now… now he’s seriously regretting that oversight.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Derek Hale, Deucalion/Malia Tate, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/Isaac Lahey
Comments: 301
Kudos: 1603
Collections: Fav Recs





	1. One

He was going to kill them. String them up by their feet and tear out their throats. He was going to do it. This time. This time for sure.

“Give it up, asshat!”

“You first, buttmunch!”

“Buttmunch? What are you, _twelve_?”

The clock on the entertainment cetner’s display blinked back at him: 7:30 on a Sunday morning.

“Who ate the last of Cocoa Puffs!? I was seriously looking forward to my morning fix…”

“Derek did it.”

“Derek.”

“It was Derek!”

“You’re all filthy, flea ridden liars,”

7:30. On a Sunday. Peter was going to slaughter them.

At that moment, something heavy plopped onto his legs with enough force to make him grunt. Said involuntary noise morph into a low growl as he opened his eyes fully and glared at the young woman sitting on him.

“Morning, sunshine,” Laura grinned as she tousled his hair.

“Get off me,” he glowered, probably too drowsily to be effective, so he closed his eyes again and snuggled back into the pillows dismissively. “And it’s _Alpha-sunshine_ ,” he corrected, “Show some respect.”

She punched him in the gut, not especially hard, but plenty hard enough; it hurt dully. “You do know your bedroom is soundproofed from the rest of the house, right? It’s almost like Grandad had werewolves in mind when he built the place.”

“Hmm.”

“Just like, even.”

“Hmmmm.”

She poked him in the rib, right over the spot she’d punched. Since she was an alpha, the tenderness was slow enough to heal that his grumble was only mostly for show.

“Go to bed, Peter.”

“Just give me five minutes.”

“Or you could just go sleep in an actual bed for five _hours_. It’d do you some good.”

“Probably,” he admitted.

He felt his niece shift her weight from nearly crushing his knee to solidly settling on the couch with her legs thrown over his thighs. Her sigh was quiet, he almost didn’t catch it beneath the continued bickering coming from the rest of the house. He’d become all too familiar with that exact sigh over the past ten years though.

“I sent Erica and Isaac for the grocery run yesterday.” She made the statement with forced casualness that instantly had him alert, even if he kept his eyes closed stubbornly. “Guess who they ran into in the produce department.”

Peter stayed silent. He had a feeling he didn’t want to have this conversation. It was Sunday.

“Fucktard!”

Someone roared in the other room.

Peter sighed and finally resigned himself to being awake. He blinked his eyes open and met Laura’s serious eyes. “It’s Sunday,” he told her blandly.

“I know.” She had the grace to look sorry, at least.

The house trembled as a pack of young wolves went rampaging through. Peter thought he caught sight of blonde hair streaking by over the back of the couch a moment before the back door was slammed open. The pups traded insults and snarls and good-natured taunts that faded into the distance. Peter and Laura were alphas though, so they could still hear the nonsense long after the house had quieted around them.

After a long, tense moment where it was just them in the main house, Laura finally caved.

“Marin’s back in town.”

Peter sat up to glare at her expectantly. “Visiting her brother, I assume?”

Laura stared back. “She’s staying with him, yes.”

“And?”

“And she made quite the impression on Erica and Isaac. You’re expected to come calling. It’s apparently nonnegotiable,”

One day. One fucking day. He raced around this town and the surrounding territories all week, on so little sleep and even less down time, and the one day he’d set aside to recharge was being hijacked by the damn Council and their damn druids. Peter hated druids.

Peter wouldn’t ignore a summons though, unofficial as it may be. He’d been doing this job long enough to know better.

The last time he’d given the Council the middle finger, he had been young and fearful and stubbornly ignorant of is his own traumatized frame of mind. He’d had two options only: he could fall in line and do the job right, or he could waste away as a lone wolf while his pack was dismantled. The threat had been very real. It still was. They had nearly taken his pack from him then, or what was left of it anyway.

Even now, ten years later, Peter couldn’t think of anything worse. It took a special find of animal to survive as lone wolf, and even Peter’s damaged psyche had known he wouldn’t cut it.

Alan and Christopher had been the only reason he hadn’t fallen down that hole. They’d voted to give him more time, they’d voted compassionately in his favor. They had given him a second chance to salvage the remains of the Hale Pack, and Peter had snatched the opportunity with all the desperation and eagerness of dying wolf thrown a bone. Maybe the analogy hadn’t been far off.

Peter sighed and flopped back onto the couch. “It’s Sunday,” he whined.

“… yeah.”

Laura whined, a soft, uncertain sound that would have suited her animal form better. That was the great thing about Laura, she always knew where he was at in his mind and she always had his back. Maybe it was because she was the only other alpha in the pack, maybe it was a side effect of her being his Second and his official heir. The reasons didn’t matter though, the result was the same:

Ten years ago, she’d been an adolescent pup of an annoyance he’d barely had time for; now, she was the rock-solid support behind his every move and the extension of his own mind and will. Peter hadn’t been the only one who’d had to step up.

“You should shower. I’ll raid the leftover breakfast foods and have coffee ready for you. All you have to do is meet me in the car,” she spoke as she hopped to her feet with forced perkiness and a competence that was startlingly convincing to anyone who didn’t know her intimately, who couldn’t recognize all the bravado. Peter hated when she did that; it reminded him of his sister so damn much, and that hurt still.

Rather than deal with the lingering pang of decade-old grief, Peter got to it. Fifteen minutes later, he was showered and dressed and more-or-less awake as he slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes.

Ten additional minutes, three oatmeal bars, and a large helping of coffee later, and he was fully aware as he led Laura up the stone path leading to Alan Deaton’s front door.

They never knocked. Marin saved them the need by opening the door before they’d even reached the landing. A small smile, possibly fake, possibly enigmatic, tilted her lips. Peter hated druids.

“Let’s get this over with,” Peter grumbled, sliding past her.

“Hey, Marin,” Laura said, cool and polite, as she followed him in.

“Good morning, Laura. Alpha Hale.”

“What’s brought you to Beacon Hills?” Peter asked bluntly.

He could trad smarmy small talk and covert double entendres with the best of them, but druids had a nasty habit of turning that sort of game into a genuinely infuriating mess of mind games that more often than not led to lies of omission and outright petty or intentional confusion. Marin and her brother Alan were especially adept at this. It was the whole reason why Peter avoided dealing with his Council-sanctioned emissary despite the solid second chance the druid had gifted him so long ago.

“There’s no need to be so defensive, Peter,” Alan said in lie of greeting as he entered the room with an honest to god tea tray. “We all want the same thing here.”

Peter rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Yes, a defensive gesture, but he felt justified. “Interesting, considering I have no idea why we’re here to begin with. Just what exactly is it you think we all want?”

Alan’s smile was at least genuine, he thought, even if it was the slightest bit secretive just like his sister. “The health and happiness of your pack, of course,”

“Of course,” Peter agreed, only a little sarcastically.

The Council largely only involved themselves with creatures who were causing trouble, either directly or indirectly. They had intervened when the Hales had been burned and turned from a flourishing pack of twenty-nine to a beaten and scared five, three of which were pups, the fourth hardly much older at the time. The Council had named Peter the head of the Pack, for lack of any other option and spent the following three years whipping him and Laura into the meanest semblance of authority figures.

They’d backed off to the periphery of town once the Hales proved they could keep control of their wolves without incident. This had meant Alan Deaton and Christopher Argent became the only Council presence in the pack’s territory, their official babysitters. They only stopped watching them like hawks once Peter had found his footing and he and Laura discovered themselves able to take on the full responsibilities of a Council-recognized pack.

The day Peter gave his first Alpha Bite and welcomed Isaac Lahey to the pack was the day Chris finally let him off the leash with a proud smile and a literal pat on the back. He’d announced his retirement the very next day. When Boyd and Erica join the pack so shortly before Isaac presented as an omega, Deaton hadn’t retired, but he began limiting himself to the role of mildly curious neighbor and nothing more.

Collectively, the pack saw Deaton perhaps once every other month, and usually it was just Isaac and Derek. That was the way Peter liked it.

He did not like the Council showing up unexpectedly. Not at all. For any reason.

“Good news then,” Laura said, her cheerfully competent persona in full force as she grinned, “Everyone’s healthy and happy. We’re good here.”

Laura didn’t like druids either. The fact was possibly Peter’s fault.

Alan’s smiled turned the slightest bit condescending. “Are you now?”

Marin tilted her head as she sidled up to Peter, peering at his face unnervingly, “The bags under your eyes suggest otherwise, Alpha,”

Peter resisted the urge to step back and smirked down at her. “Well, I am managing a territory meant for a pack four times the size of what I’ve got,” he pointed out cockily.

He deserved to be cocky though, and they all knew it. Peter wasn’t the strongest Alpha, but he was damn clever, more driven than most, and, above all, he was competent. He was successfully managing a massive territory with an alarmingly small pack, and that was only the case because Peter wasn’t willing to start Biting strangers or accepting every cast-off and stray wolf to pass through.

Oh. And because the Council was absolutely and utterly unwilling to allow his pack to relocate to a smaller, more realistic territory. It was something to do with the pact between earth magic and the specific wolf lineage. Peter didn’t care, that was Council business and well above his paygrade.

“You’re also fostering a pack of adolescences and omegas,” Alan added, oh so unhelpfully.

Peter’s spine stiffened and beside him Laura bristled. “They are perfectly able, and more reliable than _any_ adult wolf you’ve tried to pawn off on us.”

“Even our omegas,” Peter added.

“Especially our omegas,” Laura defended.

It was a good point. Omegas were the least physically impressive dynamic, even among humans, but in a wolf pack they were crucial. They were the heart of a pack, the comforters and soothers, and they encouraged harmony and peace within any given group of wolves, even opposing packs or lone wolves. Omegas were the traditional homemakers and child bearers, sure, but they were so much more.

They were sanity and safety and happiness on an instinct, animal level.

But the Council were not animals. They weren’t wolves, but humans, even the magically gifted ones. Humans never did appreciate omegas like they should, and unfortunately it showed in inconvenient ways at times.

“Derek is in his mid-twenties and still unmated,” Alan said somberly, as if they needed the reminder, “In fact, his only recent dating attempts have been unmitigated failures and far and few between,”

“No shit,” Peter growled, “Beings abused and having your family slaughtered by the only sexual partner you’ve ever known will have that effect.”

“Yes,” there was real, deep sorrow in his voice when he acknowledged that, “but he is still an omega, with omega drives and instincts,”

Peter put a hand on Laura’s wrist before she could lash out. He knew how short her fuse was when it came to her brother, justified as it was, and while his own hackles were up, he couldn’t quite tell if the anticipation of a threat was based on anything real. They hadn’t come as far as they had by reacting before they’d gathered the information to act _on_.

“What’s your point?” he asked pointedly.

Deaton’s gaze was sympathetic but determined, “You’ve given Derek the time and space to heal and you’ve done an admirable job, Peter, Laura. But Derek’s forward progresses has turned stagnant in recent years. You’re not helping him anymore. You’re enabling him to stay stagnant.”

The defensive anticipation vanished under the righteous anger and Peter felt his eyes blaze alpha-red.

“No,” Laura growled, her own eyes burning bright and claws out. “You can’t take him. You won’t.”

“No one wants to take Derek anywhere—” Marin interjected.

“Bullshit!” Laura snapped, “Do you think we’re a bunch of dumb dogs? You think the packs don’t talk to each other about how the Council trades in omegas among supernaturals even though humans have outlawed that shit for nearly century!?”

“I beg your pardon?” Deaton sounded honestly alarmed.

Laura ignored him. “He is my _brother_ ,” she snarled, “and _our_ omega. We won’t let you hand him off to the first Alpha wolf willing to pay up,”

“That’s not—”

“Your brother has needs his littermates can’t meet,” Marin spoke over her brother in a cool, loud voice that was utterly unmoved. “He needs to mate and he needs to make his own den. And you, Peter, as his pack Alpha need to give him that opportunity. And Isaac too.”

“Fuck tha—”

Laura shut up as Peter put himself between her and druid. He stepped right up to Marin, the toe of his loafer touching the tip of her shoe, and glared down at her till she had no choice but to crane her head back to meet his eye and avoid hitting her nose on his chest.

“How. Dare. You.” His voice was more wolf than man. “You come into my territory, preaching about the wellbeing of me and mine, and in the next breath try to damage that by pulling us apart.”

“Peter,” Deaton said cautiously, “It’s not like that—”

“Who do you think brought me here?” Marin interrupted again, voice quiet but not in the slightest bit cowed. If anything, she sounded angry. “Do you think this was Alan’s idea? It wasn’t.”

“I don’t give a shit who’s idea it was. It ends here.”

“It was Cora’s,” Marin stated.

Peter froze, alarmed at the steadiness of truth in Marin’s heartbeat.

“Bullshit,” Laura breathed, stunned.

“Cora called us,” Marin said, unrelenting. “Her and Malia. You didn’t notice, did you?”

He stepped away from her, suddenly uneasy. “…Notice what,”

“Malia,” the moment he backed off, she crossed her arms and unlike when he did it, she didn’t seem particularly defensive. She seemed confident. “Your own daughter presented nearly a month ago, and you’ve been so busy micromanaging your territory that you didn’t even notice.”

“What,” he snapped tonelessly.

This is what happened when he passed out on the couch after an eighteen-hour day chasing pixies and negotiating with visiting wendigos. He must still be asleep. He was having some sort of dream where his waking nightmares were sneaking into his subconscious in subtle and disturbingly unexpected ways. That had to be it.

“Malia’s omega.” Marin reiterated. “She’s been hiding it with incense burning and some light spell casting. Cora figured it out because she noticed Malia was skipping pack meals more often to prevent you from noticing and decided to investigate,”

“Apparently,” Deaton said slowly, “Derek and Isaac each gave up a dose of their Heat-meds to help her. Cora found out, and she brought Malia to me. Peter, I’ll be honest, when they walked through that door, I really wasn’t expecting to be so… disappointed.”

“I repeat,” Peter said quietly, maybe a bit numbly, “ _What_?”

“You’ve always looked out for your family, Peter, especially after Talia passed and you took on the extra responsibilities you weren’t prepared for. You’ve always done your best by them, and it’s been impressive,”

The way that complement fell off felt like being gutted. “But?” he hissed.

“Peter… I understand your desire to maintain this peace you’ve managed to carve out for you all. But Derek isn’t the only one unwilling to change. Your pack is changing, their needs and desires growing as nature intended, and you’ve been ignoring it.”

Peter squeezed his fists to keep from screaming, and the bite of pain in his palms made him realize his claws were out. His chest felt tight. It felt like the world was wobbling beneath his feet even as he double checked his balance.

Behind him, Laura was… silent. Stunned.

Marin, of course, had no problem finding words. “You’re dangerously out of touch with the omegas in your pack. You’re supposed to be helping them find mates and find their own packs, and instead you have all three of them bending over backwards to stay in a pack that doesn’t satisfy them because they’re afraid of what will happen to you if they leave.”

“You’ve done your healing,” Deaton’s tone was far softer and kinder than his sister, at least, but no less devastating, “Both of you. You’ve come so far, and you’re the better for it. And so are Derek, Cora, and Malia. You’ve done well with them. But just as welcoming Isaac, Erica, and Boyd into your family was a necessary step in that process, so is this.”

“It’s time to let go,” Marin told them firmly, “None of you needs a pack based on shared grief any longer. You have three omegas who need to leave the nest, and only three adolescent betas to help you build from there and maintain your territory.”

“Malia….” Aura whispered, sounding lost and betrayed. “She’s really an omega?”

“She is,” Deaton assured.

“And… she didn’t tell us.” Laura’s face crumbled and Peter didn’t know how to deal with the wet gleam in her eyes. “Derek, and Isaac, too. None of them told us. Not even Cora. She just went straight to the Council.”

“She’s just fourteen,” Peter murmured to no one in particular. “She probably didn’t know what she was doing,”

“Probably,” Deaton inclined his head, “Which is fortunate. If she had known, it’s likely she would have followed the omegas’ line of thinking and left things as is until something unthinkable happened.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to remind them that his pack was happy, dammit, growing pains excepted. He wanted to scoff and roll his eyes. He wanted to yell and rage at them, to chasing them off his land and keep them as far from his precious pack as possible.

Peter didn’t do any of that. Instead, he thought about the constant, nagging bickering that had become the regular soundtrack of their home at some point without his noticing. He thought about Derek and his sullen moods, how his nonverbal periods had been getting longer and more frequent again. His mind raced over details of every interaction he’d had lately with his daughter, his only child from an irresponsible fling in his youth and a large reason he hadn’t immediately buckled under the weight of Pack Leader the moment it settled on him at the tender age of twenty-three.

For the first time in at least a few years, Peter felt like a failure.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Marin’s words were direct, unrepentant, cool and factual.

Numbly, Peter realized he knew that tone of voice well. He was used to speaking like that himself. It meant there was no room to talk back. It meant there would be no negotiating.

“The two of you are going to go home and touch base with your pack. You will explain in no uncertain terms that all three of your omegas will be mated off within the next year one way or another.”

Laura paled. “A year!?”

Peter put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. He closed his eyes and took a breath. “Anything else?” he asked softly.

“Peter!” Laura protested.

“Is there anything else,” Peter repeated, a little louder and a lot more firmly.

Marin raised her chin and the tiny uptick of her mouth looked victorious. It made him want to gut her. “Yes, actually. While you’re helping your omegas find what they need, the Council wants you to do a little soul searching for your own: it’s time you took a mate, Peter.”


	2. Two

“So… four weddings.” Isaac said slowly, as he were trying the idea on for size.

“Three,” Malia said promptly, “I’m not getting married. They can’t make me.”

“That is true. Technically.” Peter admitted stonily.

“What do you mean, technically?” Cora stared at him as she asked. She’d been pale and quiet since the moment Peter and Laura had gotten back from Deaton’s and she’d seen their faces. Peter knew he’d been right: she hadn’t understood what would happen by involving the Council in their affairs. She’d only thought she was helping her cousin.

Peter took a moment to choose his words. It was an impossible task with all those young, uncertain eyes focused on him, like he was going to save them from a fate worse than death or something equally nonsensical and romantic. Stalling, he looked at them all, his pack, his family.

Laura was perched on the couch arm beside him, hugging her knee to her chest and uncharacteristically glum and silent with her dark hair hanging around her face. Derek was sitting in the recliner on her other side, elbows on his knees and face pale and stony as he glared back at Peter. To Peter’s other side, Cora and Malia had squished into a single armchair, the former looking terrified and shocked while the latter just looked pissed off.

Across the room, Isaac sat between Boyd and Erica, holding each of their hands where they gripped him like a lifeline. Erica’s head rested on the omega’s shoulder and their honey blonde locks nearly blended together. As they stared at Peter with wide, expectant and unassuming eyes, it struck him anew how much they looked like siblings. They even comforted each other like siblings, not unlike how Laura and Derek used to be when they were young.

Boyd was the only one not looking at the Alpha, his eyes cast down to where his dark hand held Isaac’s. Usually, Boyd’s unshakable stoicism was a breath of fresh air, but in that moment Peter only saw his inability to read the boy as another red flag.

It felt like he hardly knew his pack at all.

“Peter?!” Cora scooted forward to the edge of the chair, repeating herself earnestly, “What do you mean, technically?”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes to keep from looking at them. “The Council doesn’t make demands like this lightly. It probably is the best thing for all of us….”

“Bullshit,” Derek growled.

“But… you should get to stay with your family,” Cora turned wet eyes on Malia, then Isaac, before locking on her brother’s. “All of you. I don’t want you guys to leave,”

“What you want doesn’t matter anymore,” Derek glowered at her.

“It’s not her fault, Derek.” Laura intervened half-heartedly. 

“Like hell it isn’t,”

“Enough,”

Everyone fell quiet as their eyes returned to him. It was uncomfortable and wretched and it made Peter want to cut and run. It was an impulse he’d learned to squash into submission years ago for the sake of the people currently stuck in this shitty situation with him. Peter ignored those thoughts for the time being, put them on the back burner so he could focus on what they needed to hear him say.

It was his job as their Alpha. For however long that remained the case.

Still. He was careful about it, making the most of it for as long as they were his. He kept the heaviness and guilt out of his voice when he finally laid it out for them.

“This was bound to happen eventually. If it wasn’t now, it would have happened when the Council inevitably learned that we had three matured and unmated omegas wasting away in this pack.”

“Peter—” Laura began beseechingly.

“We’re not wasting away—” Malia griped at the same time.

He held up a hand with a flash of his red eyes and they fell silent again. He wasn’t going to waste time with their misguided reassurances. The clock was ticking. A year was… not that long.

“If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine,” he continued calmly, “Derek. Isaac. I should have done a better job helping you guys find the sort of mates and pack that would value you and make you happy. Malia…. The fact I didn’t notice you had presented is a shame I’ll have to learn to live with. So is the fact all three of you felt the need to hide it from me.”

Isaac stiffened at this and he sounded stricken as he whined, “Peter…”

“It doesn’t matter why you did that,” Peter continued undeterred, “What matters is that the Council is right. This isn’t how omegas are supposed to live. It’d be one thing if you were happy here, but I don’t think any of you really are.”

He paused here and tried to connect with each other them. Isaac met his eye with tears in his own. Malia blinked back at him rapidly and stubborn. Derek just stared at the ground, glaring so hard Peter could nearly hear his teeth grinding. None of them even tried to refute his claim, there wasn’t a point.

“You each deserve better,” he said eventually, and amazingly his own eyes were dry and his voice crisp and clear. “You deserve happiness. You deserve to thrive.”

“So do you,” Malia shot back at him, crossing her arms and meeting his eyes like she was issuing a challenge.

Peter smirked to hide the effect that statement threatened to have on him. “I _am_ taking a mate this year too,” he reminded them flippantly.

Malia snorted, unconvinced.

“I still don’t understand.” Erica sat up fully, pushing off Isaac’s shoulder with a frown on her pretty face. “So what happens if you guys don’t find mates by the end of the year? The Council can’t actually make you get married,”

“No one has to get married,” Laura admitted quietly. “They just have to get mated. They could take all the time in the world to get married after that if they want.”

“Yeah. No pressure,” Malia griped humorlessly.

Marriage was, of course, a legality recognized by human law and the supernatural world’s ruling Council in equal measure. Mating on the other hand… mating was animalistic, a primal and magical bond that affected werewolves in particular for life. Humans had largely evolved beyond the constraints of mating bonds, if they ever had them to begin with, but wolves still mated for life.

That was the whole reason alpha and omega humans were so free of secondary gender restraints, why omega traffic had been illegal for so long in comparison to the supernatural world. Human omegas could sleep around and have healthy relationships with multiple partners; a wolf omega was one and done. Same was true for alphas.

It was the whole reason the Council could still get away with trading omegas between packs even so many decades after merging and becoming known to the rest of the world. They considered themselves matchmakers, supposedly.

The really shitty part of it was… there was validity to it.

Peter still had to clear his throat a couple times before he could make himself say: “Deaton and Marin have made it clear there will be severe consequences if we don’t play ball. So. Starting tomorrow, they are going to put me in touch with alphas who’ve notified the Council of their desire to mate, starting locally and moving from there till you each find someone. For safety and potentially political reasons, I can’t just forward their contact info to you guys, and I have to play chaperone to your interactions with any potential mates for a while—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Derek hissed. He surged to his feet and stormed out of the room without a backward glance, his bedroom door slamming shut a moment later.

Predictably, it all sort of went to shit from there. 

Before Peter could recover from Derek’s harsh departure, Malia had huffed and ran off out the back door and into the surrounding woods. Isaac and the betas at least stuck around long enough to hear Peter outline the Council’s grand scheme to give them all some sort of Happily Ever After, but they did so silently, and no one seemed particularly enthused when they all wandered off to bed afterward.

“So…” Laura slid off the couch’s arm rest and snuggled into his side.

Peter deflated. He slumped back into the couch, taking her with him.

“Sounds like you’re going to have your hands full trying to force suitors down their throats,”

“Indeed,”

God, but he really hated this. He closed his eyes and all he saw was the anger etched into Derek’s musculature as he stomped off, the gleam of startled tears in Isaac’s eyes, and the proud, defiant set to Malia’s jaw as she glared at him. They were so… unhappy. And for the life of him, Peter could figure out how they got that way any more than he could begin to guess why on earth they all wanted to stay as such.

“I’m curious though,” Laura hazarded after he let them lapse into silence, “In all that chaperoning and matchmaking, how do you expect to find an omega of your own?”

For once, he didn’t bother to thick before he spoke. He was just so damn tired.

“Maybe I won’t. Fuck the Council.”

Laura sat up in alarm, so fast her long hair whipped him in the face. She stared at him like he’d gone mad. “Don’t joke about that. They’ve been pestering you to grow the pack practically as soon as mom’s grave started growing grass. If you don’t do this, they _will_ dismantle our pack, Peter. You know they will.”

He barely refrained from laughing in her face, and only then because he knew it would come out more self-deprecating than sardonic. Instead, he replied with force casualness and a disinterest that was one-hundred-percent fake:

“They’re dismantling our pack anyway. Didn’t you notice,”

She punched him.

He glared at her, but otherwise didn’t move an inch. “Ow.”

“Stop being an ass, Peter. This is serious. What about me and Cora? Erica and Boyd? What about you, Peter. You wouldn’t make it as a lone wolf and you know it.”

He found it difficult to keep glaring at her, eye to eye, at that. Staring at the ceiling as if it held answers was far more appealing and equally unproductive.

He must have misjudged where Laura was at. In the ensuing silence, her nostrils flared and her shoulders went tense with a sudden influx of anxiety.

“Is that what you want,” she whispered, voice hard and guarded like she rarely used with him, “Suicide by Council ultimatum?”

Peter did roll his eyes then. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Look who’s talking,”

He flicked the tip of her nose like he had when the top of her head only reached his armpit. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, dearest. I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll find a mate then?” She pushed.

“I said I’ll figure it out, didn’t I,”

She knew him too well. “Promise me, Peter. Promise me you’ll find yourself a mate.”

“Of course, I will,” and he caressed her cheek in utter sincerity, “I could never abandon you. You know that,”

Truer words had never left his mouth, and he kept them on repeat in his mind the following morning when Marin trapped him in his own office and dropped four manilla folders on his desk.

“Alan and I personally selected them,” she somehow managed to keep the gloating to a minimal, tight little smile. He still wanted to claw it off her face. She tugged one particular folder till it stuck out and tapped it with a point arch of her brow, “You’ll want to consider this one especially carefully. Think of it as a gesture of good faith.”

Without another word, she breezed out of the room. Peter waited till he heard her car’s engine fade into the distance before he dared touch the folders. He didn’t start with the _especially careful_ one.

Twenty minutes later, and Peter had reached a few sound conclusions regarding the papers.

  1. Bobby Finstock was an alpha with delusions of grandeur and Peter would rather be a lone wolf than saddle any member of his pack with him.
  2. Marin and Alan had a very peculiar sense of gestures of good faith. Scott McCall was hardly more than a pup himself, and he had no business trying to mate when he hadn’t even finished a year at college, as far Peter was concerned.
  3. Jennifer Blake sounded like a crazy ex-girlfriend nobody needed. Even on paper, something about her reminded him a little too much of Kate fucking Argent. He burned the file.
  4. … They couldn’t seriously expect Peter to bed a sixteen-year-old who would barely pass for _twelve_. Even if Corey Bryant’s ears weren’t so big to be distractingly unattractive, that baby-face was an absolute no.



If these were the best and most likely mate candidates the Council had to offer, Peter might as well save them all the trouble and murder the lot of them right now.

He was considering the logistics of such an approach with varying degrees of seriousness when Isaac showed up to pull him out of his head.

“Mind if I come in?”

“I’d be glad of it, actually,” he hoped Isaac didn’t read into his consternation too much. The last thing he wanted was for his attitude to unfairly influence his charges’ opinions about prospective mates. Well. It was one of the last things.

Isaac closed the office door behind him and swept closer to the desk on light-as-air feet. He’d always moved quietly, a byproduct of lycanthropy on top of a childhood of tip toeing around an alcoholic father with a temper. Isaac was a far cry from the shy, trembling thing he’d been when Peter gave him the Bite, but Peter was constantly unsettled by the subtle reminders of the history that had brought the young omega to him.

Thank God Peter had taken him in before he’d presented. Jonah Lahey was exactly the kind of asshole who wouldn’t have hesitated to breed his own child.

“What can I do for you, Isaac?”

The omega didn’t sit down. He stood with his impossibly long legs pressed to the front edge of Peter’s desk, his fingers playing across the lip of it absently as he avoided meeting his Alpha’s eye. Consumately submissive, Isaac was. So unlike the omegas of the actual Hale bloodline. Peter was suddenly griped by the knowledge that it was his responsibility to make sure this boy ended up with someone who treasured that submission and wouldn’t abuse it.

The realization was terrifying in a way none had been in years. Not since Peter had had the sense knocked into him by Chris Argent after he’d nearly put his remaining family on the streets with his carelessness at the earliest stages of his tenure as Pack Alpha.

“I’m not mad,” Isaac admitted.

“… What?”

“I’m not mad at you. At the situation.”

Peter took a deep breath through his nose, scenting the air. The only signals Isaac’s scent was giving off were worry, excitement, a bit of his ever-present anxiety, and… shame?

“I can tell you’re not.” He leaned forward and despite the soundproof walls ensuring privacy he lowered his voice to a soothing tone he’d learned as a sudden lone parental figure to a traumatized omega teen and orphaned toddler. Sometimes, that particular people skill served him well at unexpected moments. “You, at least, are willing to talk to me. I’ll admit, it’s a relief. Thank you,”

And it was true. Derek and Malia were actively avoiding him. Such things were obvious in a house full of people with supernaturally acute senses.

Isaac took the bait readily, accepting Peter’s thanks for the invitation it was. He crouched down on his hunches, fingers gripping the desk and leaving Peter with a view of blond curls and wide eyes peaking at him from behind the makeshift barrier. It was one of those things Isaac just did sometimes, making himself small and hard to target, really leaning into those submissive instincts.

Peter waited for him to voice whatever was on his mind. It only took a minute.

“I’m not like Malia and Derek, Peter.”

“I know,”

“… I want a mate.”

“Yes, I figured you might,”

That blonde mop perked up a little. “You’re not disappointed?”

For fuck’s sake. He knew he could be a sarcastic asshole at times, but damn. What must Isaac think of him, for that to even be a question right now. For that matter, what must Derek and Malia think of him; they couldn’t even be in the same room with him at present.

“No, Isaac,” Peter said without inflection. “I may not be the most… _affectionate_ alpha in the world, but I do care. I want joy and fulfillment for you, no matter what that looks like. The same goes for Malia and Derek.”

Isaac choked on a tearful little laugh. He whipped beneath his eyes with a sleeve and smiled. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he affirmed.

“Okay. I want a mate. I want to get married and have babies. I think I’d be a real good mom.”

Peter smile felt warm and fragile as he nodded once. “I think you will be,”

“I was….” Isaac trailed as he stood straight again. His shoulders hunched and he chewed his lip like he wasn’t sure how much to say.

“Spit it out, Isaac,” Peter sighed, not meanly, but… well. He _was_ a bit of an asshole and his tolerance for teenage nervousness never was all that great.

“I just was thinking about it. About my mate, I mean. I know it’s not super common, but… I think I’d like him to be about my age. I think that’d be better, right? I’m not into the whole… exploring my Daddy-issues thing, you know.”

Peter huffed out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, Isaac. That’s good thinking.”

“So if the Council ever passes along someone who’s a bit younger…”

Peter very nearly threw his head down on the desk in defeat. Fucking. Druids. He hated them. He fingers toyed with the corner of the manilla folder with the name McCall scrawled on its front.

Ugh. The kid was a studying to be a _veterinarian_ when he’d been become Pack Leader. A werewolf vet. Who did that.

“Actually,” Peter forced himself to keep the derision to himself, “It looks like you’re in luck,”

Before he could convince himself better of it, Peter handed the folder to Isaac. The sweet boy took it with fingers that trembled with pure excitement, and Peter’s heart gave an involuntary pang of ache at the proverbial hearts already shining in his eyes.

“That stays in this office. And you can’t have contact with him without me,” Peter reminded him, possibly less tactfully than he could have.

Isaac either didn’t care or didn’t notice. He was too busy reading over the short bio and mooning over the two full-colored photos clipped to the papers.

“Peter!” he said breathlessly, “He’s the alpha of San Diego proper! That’s so close to here!”

Peter blinked, surprised. He… well, he hadn’t bothered to note the guy’s location.

“I could probably visit every other weekend if I wanted,” Isaac blushed and shot him a glance, “If you wanted me to?”

This damn kid. “And I used to think you were smart. What do _you_ _think_ I’d want?”

Isaac’s lush deepened, but at least he was smirking now as his attention returned to the paperwork. He stared down at the picture for a minute longer, and just as Peter was about to snap his fingers to get it back, Isaac threw him a curve ball.

“Can I call him?”

Peter froze. “…Right now?”

“Yeah,” Isaac pointed at something on the page and grinned, “Says here he’s prime talking hours are pretty much always, so why not. And it’s not like Pack Leaders keep regular business hours anyway,”

Isaac had him there. There was a reason Mr. McCall never finished college, same as why Talia Hale had never bothered in the first place. Pack Alpha wasn’t just a job, it was a calling. Of the kind that a wolf was constantly on call for till the day they died. But what it lacked in office hours and vacation options, it made up for in other ways; the Council ensured Peter and every other Pack Leader in the Northern Hemisphere had a sufficient income to support their pack and (extenuating circumstances aside) there life-long job security was pretty much unbeatable. 

So yeah. Now was as good a time to call McCall as any.

Peter wordlessly set his cell phone on the desk and tapped the speaker icon, then he sat back to let Isaac do as he pleased.

With a bashful smile, Isaac dialed. 

It only rang twice before a disgustingly chipper and youthful male voice answered amid a small cacophony of background noise. “Hello, hello, hello,” he said swiftly, then continued with seemless showmanship, “You have reached Scott’s cell phone at a _most_ inopportune moment. If your name is Lydia or Allison, I’m afraid I am not authorized to take your call or any messages containing explanatives or threats of bodily harm, up to and including death. If you belong to the great mighty Council, kindly shove your message up your ass and cease and desist calling this number immediately.”

Isaac and Peter both stared at the phone, then at each other, speechless as the background noises carried on. Even a human could probably make out the distinct growling and snarling of enraged wolves among the ruckus.

“… Hell-low?” the stranger said, sing-song and bemused. He cleared his throat, all semblance of the smooth orator suddenly gone, “Dude. You haven’t hung up or cussed me out yet. Not really sure what to do with that.”

Peter put his finger over Isaac’s gaping mouth and spoke, “I’m calling to speak with Alpha McCall.”

“Uh… No can do. He’s busy. Bye.”

The call cut off.

Isaac looked stunned and confused. That look, combined with the incredible display the asshat on the phone had just put on, made Peter furious. Irrationally furious. It was possible all the happenings over the past twenty-four hours might have factored in there too.

Eyes bleeding red, Peter snatched up the phone and hit redial.

“Okay,” the stranger snapped in his ear before the first ring had completed. “In case you’re hard of hearing or just unusually thick, I’ll rephrase: We’re. Not. Interested. In _anything_ the Council’s got--”

“I’m sure you think you’re very clever,” Peter growled menacingly, “Perhaps you’ve even played a game or two with someone well outside your weight class and walked away with your life and misguided notions about your own aptitude. But do you know what happens to upstart pups who make it a habit of mouthing off to unknown entities?”

On the other end of the line, all Peter could hear was the a few token growls as whatever conflict was drawing to a close.

“Well?” Peter prompted, “Let’s hear it, clever boy. What, exactly, do you plan to do after you’ve pissed off the wrong apex predator?”

There was a soft squeak in his ear and the call was ended again. Despite himself, Peter gave a startled laugh of genuine amusement.


	3. Three

Peter was seventeen when Malia was born, and while she’d grown up knowing he was her sire, Talia and her mate were the parents she recognized from her formative years. They were, instead, more like uncle and niece than anything, and then latter on, Pack Alpha and beta. Normally, Peter was happy with this arrangement.

By that evening, Peter found himself wishing he had any amount parental leverage to help him out.

“I was about to eat that,” he gritted through his teeth as he stared down at the empty plate in his hand.

Malia met his eye and held it as she took a bite from the medium rare steak fillet that was speared on her claws.

“Was that really necessary,”

She chewed thoroughly and swallowed obnoxiously, still holding his unamused gaze. “Depends,” she said casually, “Was it necessary to give in to the terrorists and let them dictate our lives?”

His jaw clenched in distaste, but at least he knew she couldn’t see his heart breaking right along with her. “Yes,”

Her eyes narrowed and she tore off another bite. Around the mouthful, she shrugged and said “Than it was necessary. Doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

Then she sauntered off with his dinner skewered on her claws.

“She has a point,”

Peter sighed and turned his glare on Boyd. His expression softened immediately when he saw the extra plate of juicy meat in his hands.

“Thank you,” he accepted the new meal graciously, then nodded after Malia, “And I know.”

“She’s not really mad at you anyway,” Boyd assured him.

From anyone else, Peter might have accepted that nugget of wisdom as a bald attempt to make him feel better. Boyd wasn’t like that though. If he bothered to say anything, it was something worth saying, not just empty words.

“You’re sure about that, are you,” he prompted, shamelessly fishing.

Boyd just nodded, the infuriating not-so-little shit.

Peter sighed. Getting anything worth while from Boyd always required a little more quid pro quo. Peter could respect that.

“I always had her pegged for an alpha,” he admitted.

Boyd carried his plate the rest of the way to the table, and Peter took his quiet hum as concurrence.

“She’s always been so aggressive. It honestly never occurred to me she might present as omega. I can’t imagine how she must be reeling.”

It was just the two of them at the dining table. Peter set his plate down beside Boyd’s and gave up the conversation for a lost cause. He cut into his dinner and had the fork half way to his mouth when the beta stunned him with another insightful tidbit.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, nodded down at his plate, “Malia’s got zero maternal instinct. I wouldn’t match her with anyone looking to breed, if I were you,”

Peter chuckled, “You’re… not wrong.”

They shared a glance and a small laugh, the kind that comes from a joint understanding of uncomfortable truths that were, in a certain light, down right hilarious.

“Yeah… but Peter?” Boyd said as he sobered.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t let her fool you. She wants to den up and make herself the core of her own pack in the worst way. She needs to be needed, man.”

They fell silent and introspective then. Peter couldn’t begin to guess what Boyd was pondering so heavily, but those last spoken words were ringing inside his own head with a note of finality and truth that was jarring.

Malia had always been a little bit feral. She’d been every bit as aggressive and determined as her father, really, and no one was surprised when Peter had presented as a biological alpha so many years before he ever was put in the position to be Pack Alpha. In some corner of his mind, he’d assumed Malia would be the same: an alpha, complete with an alpha’s drive to protect and secure her home and family.

He supposed that wasn’t something that changed just because she turned out omega. And why would it. Just because she hadn’t developed baby fever and a maternal drive overnight didn’t mean she was any less of an omega. It just meant the source of pride and satisfaction in life wasn’t going to be found in their pack. She needed a home she could build from the foundations up, her own den, with her own pack built around her as she saw fit.

“Fuck me,” Peter grumbled, letting the last piece of steak clatter onto the plate.

Boyd stared at him, brow furrowed in concern.

“Where am I going to find an alpha interested in mating another alpha who happens to smell like an omega,”

Boyd laughed.

At that moment, Peter’s phone rang. He was still trying to wrap his head around the unique conundrum his daughter presented as he accepted the call, it was the only reason he was so utterly blindsided.

“You’re Peter Hale, Alpha of the Beacon Hills pack.” A smooth tenor said by way of introduction.

Peter frowned at the unfamiliar voice. “I am. Who is this?”

“Scott McCall. Sorry it took so long to get back to you.”

It took him an embarrassingly long moment to remember the name and why it was of any importance. His mind was still stuck on Malia.

“After you threatened my emissary,” Scott continued when he didn’t respond, “We thought we’d err on the side of caution and do some digging on the number you called from. All I turned up was your name and designated territory. Oh, and the fact you’re apparently on a Council Hunter’s speed dial. Care to explain yourself, Alpha Hale?”

Peter snorted into the phone. He couldn’t help it.

“You’re not Council,” Scott McCall growled back, dropping the charismatic professional approach in a hot second. “I heard what you said to Stiles, and there’s no way you’re Council.”

“No. way.” Peter mocked. Something about the way the pup said those two words was so painfully young and out of touch with the tough and mildly imposing approach he’d been going for. It was absolutely laughable. Peter impressed himself when he didn’t guffaw right in the other Pack Leader’s ear. “Oh, Scott. You have no idea.”

“What. Do. You. Want.” He snarled, and this time Peter was almost moved to take him seriously. Almost.

“Absolutely nothing,” Peter sobered before adding, “One of my omegas, on the other hand, seems to want in your pants, last I checked.”

Beside him, Boyd’s eyes went wide and he mouthed a slow “wow,” before making a hasty retreat from the dining room.

Scott seemed similarly shocked, judging by the way he seemed to be holding his breath.

“I suppose you can thank the Council for that, after all,” Peter continued good-naturedly. “They are the ones who… recommended you as a potential mate,”

The young alpha cleared his throat and it was only too easy to imagine him stumbling over his words. “They… what? A potential mate? To your omega? As in… me?”

Good lord, but this kid certainly was Isaac’s age, wasn’t he.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Scott. I can tell him you’re not interested.”

“Wait!”

And the only reason Peter was did was because he remembered the hopeful look on Isaac’s face when he’d looked at this guy’s picture and location.

“I’m waiting.”

“I’m interested,” Scott said hastily, perhaps even a little giddily.

“Obviously,” Peter deadpanned.

“I mean… I’d like to speak with him,” Scott tried again, trying to regain that professional demeanor too late, “But I have some conditions.”

Peter frowned. “I believe that’s supposed to be my line, _Alpha_ McCall,” he sneered the honorific disdainfully.

To his credit, the other alpha didn’t seem to care about the insult. It gave him no pause as he said, “I have nothing against arranged matings, Alpha Hale, but if I’m gonna do this, I’m doing it right. That means I’m getting everything I want out of the deal, and I’ll state it up front instead of wasting either our time. Deal?”

Peter leaned back in his seat, considering if he should take this call up to his office and if this was worth taking that seriously. Maybe it was, for Isaac’s sake.

“I’m listening,” he decided, but he didn’t exactly rush upstairs to the office.

“Oh. Well… good.” Scott sounded genuinely surprised to be having this conversation. “Great. So here’s the thing, my pack’s small and I’m young—”

“Yes. You are.” Peter mocked before he could stop himself. “You need an heir, and I’m guessing given the size of your pack, you’ll be wanting more than one spare included in this… deal.”

It was almost adorable the way the other alpha squirmed in discomfort. “That’s… negotiable. I don’t want to pressure anyone into a specific number or anything. It’s enough to know that any prospective mate of mine is capable and willing to breed.”

“Isaac’s perfectly willing,” peter assured easily, “And I’m sure he’ll agree to get tested by our pack’s emissary and forward you the results. Of course,” he added snidely, “that will require _your_ emissary to stop screening the Council’s calls, if you want to them to facilitate a mating by any means.”

Silence greeted this announcement. A lot of it. As in, far more than warranted.

“About that…,” Scott reluctantly began.

“Is there a problem, Alpha McCall?”

“No.” He said, perhaps too quickly. Peter heard his heart beat lurch tellingly. “The thing is... Stiles isn’t actually my emissary. Not really.”

Oh sweet heaven, save him from the hemming and hawing of useless children playacting as adults.

“Come again. Alpha McCall?”

“Stiles,” Scott said the name with long suffering sigh that made Peter uncomfortable with how much he sympathized with. “He’s not my emissary. He’s more like… my brother.”

“And I care about this… why?”

“It’s part of what I want—No. what I need out of this deal. Stiles has magic, and he’d make a great emissary if someone would just give him a chance—”

“I’ll stop you right there,” Peter interrupted, starting to get irritated, “The Council is responsible for emissary training and placement. Even if I wanted to help him, I couldn’t. No mating will—”

“Stiles is a human omega.”

And that…. That was not what Peter was expecting to here.

Omegas were as good as equal to anyone else in the eyes of the law and humanity in most regards. It was only in supernatural community where the secondary gender still faced so many hurtles thanks to the magical and physical mandates of life-long matings. That was why they were so highly prized and carefully managed by the Council.

No omega would be wasted as an emissary when they would be better suited safely mated into a pack.

“The Council will never give him that,” Peter broke the truth bluntly. “Your condition is unreasonable.”

“It’s not,” Scott argued, convinced. “They have a single loop hole that would allow it. If he mates with a Pack Leader who’s willing to allow him to train as their emissary’s apprentice, a human omega can double as both emissary and Alpha-mate for a single pack,”

Peter frowned, “Are you suggesting we… what. _Trade_ omegas?”

Trade. Of course. That was what the Council had been doing for years, after all. Trading omegas. He remembered Deaton’s dismayed reaction to Laura’s condemnation of the Council’s methods and felt himself flushing in belated embarrassment. Trading omegas. Not trading _in_ omegas.

“Well… yeah. Packs do it all the time.” Scott confirmed for him, as if it was obvious. And maybe to Scott and his particular social circles it was. “I know it’s a little out there because Stiles isn’t a wolf, but I promise, he’s worth it. I swear. If he wasn’t like my brother and as into me as fire is to rain, I’d be jumping at the chance to have him like that. Really. Probably.”

“Probably…?” Peter wondered aloud, amazed.

“Okay, it’s a shit analogy, and I have no idea if I’d be attracted to Stiles or not if I were seeing him for the first time. Obviously. That doesn’t matter. The point is: I want an omega, you have one. I want a Pack Alpha for Stiles, and you… well. According to Christ Argent, you are one.”

Peter remembered his promise to Laura and the proverbial ax Marin Morrel was holding over his head. Before he could think on it and really consider the single disastrous conversation he’d had with the omega in question, Peter found himself murmuring into the phone.

“As luck would have it, I am also in the market for a mate at the moment…”

Scott gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Perfect! That makes this a win-win scenario for everybody!”

“… Potentially,”

 _Not if we all hate each other_ , he thought, but managed to keep it to himself.

“Awesome!” Scott crowed happily.

Peter was already regretting this. The last thing he wanted in pack-in-laws were a extra handful of overgrown teenagers. But this wasn’t about what he wanted, was it. It was what Isaac wanted.

“Let me consider this further,” Peter said once he’d kicked his priorities back into order. “Isaac and I will get in touch with you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, totally. Stiles and I will be here,”

“I’m sure,” And then he simply couldn’t resist hanging up on that unsatisfyingly bland note.

He paused for a moment, considering and mauling over the conversation carefully. An unknowable length of time passed before anything concrete jumped out at him. When it did, Peter nearly opened the home screen of his phone with a little more force than strictly necessary.

Thirty seconds later, and Chris Argent’s face filled his screen as the video chat connected. There was more salt and pepper to his sandy hair and beard than last Peter had seen him, but those sharp eyes and customary smirk were as shrewd as ever.

“Peter Hale,” Chris leaned back, fingers lacing behind his head as he grinned. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Like you’re surprised,” Peter rolled his eyes. “You’ve been talking about me recently.”

Chris’s grin was unrepentant even as he shrugged, “I might have.”

“I thought you were retired,”

“And I thought you had better things to do than terrorize sweet little omegas who happen to count my daughter as a friend,”

Peter sighed, “Of course he’s friends with your daughter. Alicia?”

“Alison.”

“Right. I don’t suppose she’s told you much about this omega friend of hers, or his pseudo-brother alpha?”

Chris’s grin widened impossibly further. “You spoke with Scott,”

“I did. How is it you seem to know more about my business than I do, Christopher? You do know how retirement is supposed to work?”

Chris just laughed. “Relax, Peter. It was honestly just happenstance I heard about it anyway. Though I gotta admit, the only thing about it that surprises me is that it took the Council this long to strong arm you into growing the pack.”

Peter frowned, “They’ve done no such thing. They mandated that I take a mate, that’s all.”

The look that earned him was insultingly unconvinced. “You’ve given the Bite a total of three times over the past decade, Peter. Three betas. You can’t manage a territory the size of Beacon Hills on that for long, especially once Derek and Isaac take off. If they can’t make you Turn betas, they’ll do their damnedest to make sure you and Laura turn out a next generation that’ll get the job done. And that’s assuming the sleep deprivation from crying infants doesn’t make you fold on the Turning issue from sheer stupidity and desperation.”

He was right of course. One way or another, the Council needed a thriving pack in charge of Beacon Hills, and Peter was only now realizing he hadn’t been doing as well with that endeavor as he had thought.

“Malia too,”

Chris clearly saw the change in Peter’s mood at the admission. The levity fled the conversation faster than Derek ever managed, and Chris leaned forward as if he thought his reassurance was directly related to his proximity to the camera.

“What about Malia?”

“She’s leaving too. She presented as omega nearly a month ago. I found out yesterday when the Council informed me I had a year to get all four of us mated,”

He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Christ Argent, the legendary werewolf Hunter and Council enforcer, shocked speechless. It would have been satisfying if only Peter hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own woes to appreciate it.

“What the fuck, Peter.”

“Hmm,” Peter hummed noncommittally, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he thought.

“I thought… well damn. I thought you contacted Scott about Stiles. You didn’t, did you? I know Scott’s been looking for an omega breeder...”

“I didn’t know about Stiles until this evening.”

It was only once the words left him that he realized how much the admission felt like defeat. Everything was moving too quickly, and for the first time in so very long, Peter couldn’t seem to find his footing.

“Well…” Chris’s gaze drifted off to the side of the screen in thought. “For what it’s worth, I know the McCall Pack. Scott and Alison used to have a thing in high school. They’re good guys, on the whole. Stiles would be good for you, and I guess I could see Derek getting along decently with Scott, if he tried.”

Peter balked at that. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Christopher—Isaac’s the one who wants a mate and kids and the white picket fence.”

Just like that, Chris’ expression smoothed out. He blinked slowly as he absorbed this new information. “I see. To be fair, I never got much chance to get to know Isaac. But I’m sure he’d do great with Scott, if they’re domestic desires match up that well.”

“We’ll find out soon, I suspect,” Peter confessed without excitement. “If we’re lucky, Isaac will find his prince charming in this Scott, and Stiles and I will learn to tolerate each other.”

Christ snorted softly, his grin threatening to reappear. “You two are going to _adore_ each other. Whenever you’re not too busy hating each other.”

Peter didn’t have the brain power at the moment to entertain that idea further. Not right now. Later. Later, he was sure he’d find it very interesting.

For now, he just sighed and rubbed his face in exaggerated aggravation. At least, he imagined Chris would find it an exaggeration. To Peter it felt woefully insufficient.

“It would be fantastic if this worked out. Really. Then all I have to do is pull a miracle or two out of my ass to find someone who’ll have Malia, and another someone who Derek will have.”

Chris frowned, “How is he, by the way? After Kate…”

“Don’t,” Peter shook his head warningly instead of apologizing for snapping.

He and Chris didn’t apologize for anything between them, never had. Probably because if they started, they’d never stop, and so much of what they repented for had so little to do with what they were themselves responsible.

“Just don’t,” he rolled his neck on his shoulders and sighed, “I don’t want to talk about her, Chris.”

“I know, me neither,” Chris agreed, voice gentle and unassuming. “But Derek… he should talk about her, if he hasn’t yet. To someone.”

“He’s been in and out of therapy ever since, Chris,” Peter hated how defensive and resigned he sounded to his own ears as he said that.

“Is it working?”

He thought about Derek’s silence and his explosive anger. He thought about his nephew’s reaction to being told he’d have to mate, and soon.

“No,” he whispered, “I don’t think it is.”

And didn’t that just feel like a punch to the gut on top of all the other body blows he’d been taking lately.


	4. Four

A solid week later, Peter was still trying to figure out how he wound up playing phone tag with Scott McCall. Somehow, they never seemed to catch each other with the omegas in question anywhere nearby. It was maddening, and if it weren’t for Scott’s puppyish enthusiasm Peter would have suspected he was being had. As it was, he woke up the following Sunday morning to a brand-new message from yet another blocked number. He opened his voicemail before even rolling out of bed and regretted ever handing Isaac that damn folder.

“Good evening, oh alpha, my alpha,” the voicemail said in a vaguely familiar voice that immediately irked Peter’s sleep muddled brain and inspired his eyes to flash red. “Or I guess I should say good morning? It’s technically morning, isn’t it.”

Peter pulled the phone away to note the time of the missed call. The latest in a long line of unknown numbers had come in at 1:46 AM.

“Anywho…” the voice that could only belong to Stiles carried on in awkwardly drawn out syllables, “I know you and Scott have been talking about this mating thing for a bit now. The thing is… the timing’s just, y’know… not all that good. Not saying anyone’s having cold feet or anything, but I’ve thought it over long and hard, and I’m thinking—”

Peter deleted the voicemail. He tossed the phone away and rolled over to burry his head in his pillows and ignore everything for another hour.

Naturally, that was the moment his nieces came busting through his door.

“We have a solution!” Laura announced, grinning down at him with her fists on her hips.

Cora landed on the bed at his shoulder with a bounce and bright eyes. “It’s perfect. You can thank us now for solving all your problems. Well, one of them. The rest are all on you,”

Peter groaned. “Sunday.”

“… yeah?”

Laura braced her hands on the mattress and shook it with all her considerable strength. “Peter, come on. No rest for the wicked,”

“It’s Sunday,” he muttered into his pillow, “Is nothing sacred.”

“Nope.” For fuck’s sakes, they practically harmonized that blasted word, the brats.

“It’s already 9,” Laura teasing, poking his foot irritatingly, “You’ll feel like you wasted a whole day in bed if you don’t get up now anyway,”

“Isaac made muffins and omelets. You can eat while we lay out the plan of attack.” Cora punctuated this statement with a firm slap to his hip.

He got no respect around here.

But at least there were muffins. Isaac made excellent baked goods, always from scratch, and the brighter his mood, the more often the house smelled like sugar and spices and warmth. Sure enough, when the girls finally frog-marched him into the kitchen in his sleepwear, Isaac was dancing around the breakfast bar.

“Morning,” he said as he topped off a steaming cup of coffee with cream and presented it to Peter with that small, unconscious smile that meant he was having a very good day.

The coffee was great, the muffins were better. The kitchen had never smelled more like home and comfort. God, but Peter was going to miss this when the omega inevitably left them.

Somehow, he didn’t imagine Stiles was much of a baker. The thought occurred to him like a smack across the face, harmless but attention grabbing. He consciously chose to ignore the annoying voicemail he’d partially listened to and distracted himself with another sip of coffee.

“Did you tell him?” Isaac asked as he turned to pour more batter into a small bread pan.

“Not yet,” Laura replied as she pinched a bite from Peter’s second muffin.

He growled at her. She ignored him.

“Right, so we’ve been talking,” Cora rounded the breakfast bar so she could lean her forearms on it while she stared at him with hopeful, determined eyes. “Brainstorming, really. And do you remember mom’s old friend who used to take you and Laura camping?”

“It wasn’t camping,” Laura corrected in a tone that meant she’d made the distinction several times recently, “It was training. _Honing the alpha edge nature gave us_ ,”

Peter quirked a bemused brow at her, recognizing the posh affect she was mocking as much as the rhetoric, “What on earth were you reminiscing about Deucalion for?”

“Yes!” Laura pointed at him victoriously, “Him!”

Isaac and Cora snickered, the later saying “For real? How pretentious.”

“We thought you were joking,” Isaac shot a bug-eyed look at Laura, “He actually goes by that? What, like… Madonna or Drake?”

“Yeah,” Cora snorted, “Who needs a last name with a name like _Deucalion_ ,”

“I think it is his last name,” Peter frowned in thought. When he couldn’t drudge up another name, he shrugged and snatched up another muffin. “I haven’t seen Duke since Talia’s memorial service. What does he have to do with any of my problems?”

All three of them answered: “Malia,”

Peter blinked at them as he chewed, uncomprehending. He needed more coffee if they expected him to follow that drastic leap of logic.

“Malia!?” Cora repeated emphatically.

He swallowed. “I heard you. Explain.”

“Don’t you remember why he wasn’t around after everything that happened?” Laura frowned at him. “He was like an honorary uncle to us, but he was practically AWOL after the fire happened.”

Peter shrugged and picked up his mug only to find it dismally empty. “Of course. He did enough when he helped me track down the people responsible,” he said coldly as he held up the mug and shook it cheekily at Isaac, “He and his pack took some heat for it, if I remember correctly. That’s why he cut ties,”

“Peter,” Laura gaped at him, “They _blinded_ him. As in, _permanently_. The Council had to dismantle his pack while he went through rehab. How do you not remember this?”

He watched Isaac refill the mug and considered that carefully. That certainly was something he aught to remember. If Laura knew, surly he had at some point. Deucalion had grown up in the Hale pack, leaving to establish his own when Talia ascended to Pack Leader rather than become her second. He had been Pack when Peter was little, he’d been family at one point. How had Peter forgotten what happened to him.

The answer was depressingly obvious, actually.

“I was… dealing with a lot at the time,” he reminded Laura.

She blushed and winced, nodding.

As rough as those first few years had been on her, at least she’d been spared from the fall out with the Argents. She hadn’t been directly involved in the bloodbath or the insanity that had sent Peter and his newfound Pack Alpha power rampaging up and down the west coast.

In the ensuing silence, Isaac turned his attention to the dirty dishes with less pep in his movements. Cora tapped her fingers on the countertop as she avoided looking at either of her relatives. The awkward tension didn’t last too long.

“Still. No one’s heard of him reestablishing his pack, right?” Cora rallied them back on topic with only a little hesitation.

“I looked into it,” Laura added, “He’s still listed with the Council as the Pack Leader for west Hollywood,”

Cora picked up the end of her sister’s statement and ran with careless enthusiasm, “Yeah, even though he’s crippled and couldn’t possibly hold the territory on his own,”

“Wow. Sensitive, much?” Isaac shot over his shoulder.

“What?” she frowned back at him, “He’s crippled. It’s not a judgement call, it’s a fact,”

“You don’t have to be rude,”

Peter smiled into his mug despite the heaviness of the conversation. Isaac really would make a great mom someday.

“The point is,” Laura put an end to their bickering with nothing more than a little volume and intent, “Cora’s right: Deucalion’s legally a Pack Alpha, but he’s got a serious need for someone to help him build that pack up. Someone who’s strong and capable enough to take on a few traditional Alpha responsibilities,”

It struck Peter than that Laura was being entirely serious. He sat up straighter, the coffee finally bringing him to full alertness so that his mind could play catch-up.

He met his Second’s eye with equal calculation and the hinting promise of satisfaction. “Maybe someone whose dislike of pups might coincide with his own too,”

Laura grinned. “Exactly,”

Peter considered it for a moment. Deucalion, or rather the Deucalion he had known before tragedy struck them all, had been a hell of an alpha, strong and iron willed, but not unkind. He made Peter look like an utter sap at times, yes, but despite his profound disinterest in the pack’s pups he had never shied away from his perceived responsibility as a role model to a young and impressionable Peter and Laura. The Deucalion from back then… Peter wouldn’t have worried about handing over his only omega child to such an alpha.

But Malia was no mere omega, and Deucalion had suffered and changed since then. He must have.

“You might be on to something,” Peter relented cautiously, “Or you might be putting together a recipe for disaster,”

There was always the chance Deucalion’s impairment had forced him to reevaluate his priorities regarding family planning. It was possible Malia would find any degree of submission within her mate bond wholly untenable, no mater what opportunities she might get out of it. Maybe their theoretical wants and needs turned out to be a perfect match, but Peter could think of no two personalities more likely to clash and get in the way of that sort of thing.

He didn’t get the chance to dwell on the idea further.

The sound of tires squealing up the dirt road caught everyone’s attention. Literally, everyone’s. Peter, Laura, Cora, and Isaac were the first to make out on porch, but Boyd and Derek were not far behind. Malia popped open the living room’s corner window and leaned out with her nose in the air. They all watched as Erica’s Beatle screamed to a halt right in front of the porch steps.

Her door opened and she popped up in a bouncing cloud of so much blonde as she grinned wickedly at them as she plopped a large pink box on the roof of her car. 

“Good news is: I brought doughnuts. Bad news is: I just saw our resident evil overlords at Becky’s Diner, having breakfast with a couple of wolves from out of town.” She waggled her eyebrows and flicked out her tongue saucily, “Sure looks like they’re eager to get this mating-ball rolling, it sounded like an interview of something. I overheard your name once or twice, Der-bear.”

As one, they all turned to stare at Derek. He just stood there, thick arms crossed over his chest and jaw clenched hard enough to cut diamonds, and glared. Honestly, he cut a rather imposing figure.

“… Derek?” Laura hazarded, inching closer to him.

He barely moved, only his eyes darting in her direction as he huffed a curt: “No,”

Peter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Apparently, no power on earth could prevent a tension headache brought on by copious amounts of bullshit.

“Did you learn anything useful about these prospective alphas?” he asked Erica grouchily.

Behind him, Derek started up a subvocal growl. It rumbled threateningly for a long while, even after Erica had joined them on the porch and begun speaking.

“Two alphas, a mated Pack Leader and his Second. Father and son from what I could gather, and the son didn’t look all that happy to be here. They both looked like rich douche canoes, if you ask me.”

“No,” Derek repeated, a whole lot of violence impressed in that single word.

Malia gave a put-upon sigh, “I’ll meet him, I guess,”

Peter glanced at her, unimpressed. “I don’t think it works that way, pup. If Morrel brought them here for Derek—”

“If they’re here for a Hale omega, they should consider themselves lucky to meet one.” Malia countered in that effortlessly confident way that made her impossible to argue with.

Derek finally stopped growling. Peter almost preferred it to the tight, disgusted and pained expression that settled on his handsome face.

“Somehow, I don’t see you riding off into the sunset with some Abercrombie-and-Finch model,” Erica chortled at her.

Malia rolled her eyes. “I’d rather dig my eyes out with a rusty spoon, thanks,”

“Huh,” Cora said offhandedly, staring at Malia, “Overheard us talking about Deucalion, did you?”

Malia frowned. “Who the fuck is Deucalion?”

Peter’s phone lit up and buzzed to life. The sudden interruption effectively put an end to that any further mating discussion.

Or so he hoped.

It was another blocked number coming in. He answered without thinking it through, and when none of the surrounded wolves made a move to take their hyper sensitive ears elsewhere, he sighed and readied for his own retreat.

“One moment, please,” he griped into the phone as he gave his unapologetically nosy pack his back.

So naturally, Isaac chose that moment to yell: “Is that Scott!!? Hi, Scott!”

“Ooh!” Erica squealed, nudging Boyd with her elbow, “Hi, Scott!”

And of course, from Peter’s voice came Scott McCall’s flattered and amused voice, “Uh… hi, everyone? Nice to meet you?”

Peter froze. Closed his eyes to ask any and all powers that be for patience.

Laura snatched the phone right out of his hand. “Hello, Alpha McCall. What a pleasure to finally be introduced. I’m Laura, by the way, Peter’s Second.”

“Oh!” Scott’s voice, unprepared and rolling with it, came through nice and clear when Laura hit the speaker icon, “Yeah, hi. Uh… is Isaac arou—I mean, Peter. He’s still there, right? I can only talk to Isaac if he’s there,”

“He’s here!” Isaac shouted as he damn nearly tripped over himself to stand next to Laura and the phone. The moment he got there, though, his nervous grin froze and he turned to her with pleading, stricken eyes, “Um…?”

It was like watching a train wreck. Peter couldn’t look away no matter how gut-wrenchingly revolting it was to witness. Isaac’s bashful blush was just too much.

On top of Derek’s continued fuming at the far side of the porch and whatever, whoever the druids were about to drop in his lap unannounced, and then his nieces’ hairbrained scheme to deal with Malia…. It was all too damn much.

And it wasn’t even noon yet. On a Sunday.

Laura giggled, “Peter’s right here. Scott, may I officially introduce you to our sweetest omega, Isaac Lahey.”

“Hi,” Isaac grinned bashfully at the phone.

Scott’s reply was only two words, but they conveyed nothing but pleasure and gentle relief, “Hi, Isaac,”

“… Hi,”

“I’m going to be sick.” Malia whispered as she retreated back into the living room.

Peter sympathized with the sentiment.

Laura handed the phone to Isaac with an encouraging ‘go on’ motion, then she promptly started pushing and prodding everyone else back into the house to give them some semblance of privacy. Peter would bet his Mercedes that every last one of them was still listening in from the kitchen as they stole the last of the muffins and decimated Erica’s doughnuts.

“It’s good to finally hear your voice,” Scott said, soft and quiet and so inviting that Peter wanted to throw something.

Isaac cradled the phone in his hands like it was something precious. “Yeah, you too.”

For some unfathomable reason, this made Scott laugh. Just a little. Just enough to bring that hopeful spark back into Isaac’s eyes, like when he’d first seen the alpha’s picture over a week ago.

“You like my voice, then?” Damn it, but there wasn’t even anything sexual or remotely inappropriate in the way he said it. Scott McCall had never sounded so young and hopeful in the entire week Peter had been speaking to him. 

“Yeah,” Isaac repeated, blushing, “I… I don’t really know what to say,”

“Then say nothing. Anything. There’s no rush,”

“Yes,” Peter interrupted at that point, seating himself against the porch railing and getting just a bit pissy, “You may not be under any time constraints, but we are,”

Inside the house, he heard Derek snarl and Laura uttered a dismayed “dammit, Peter.”

Isaac frowned at him, but Peter refused to feel bad about dishing out a dose of reality. At least, he refused to show it.

“You can whisper sweet nothings to each other all day, Isaac,” Peter said, and for the life of him he couldn’t pinpoint why he was being so hard on them at that particular moment, “ _After_ I make sure we’re not just getting our hopes up for nothing.”

“What the fuck?” Cora’s hushed voice sounded from the kitchen.

Out on the porch, Isaac looked like he’d been slapped.

Peter held out his hand for his phone with a pointed look.

“Isaac,” Scott called, calm and quiet enough that no one beyond the three of them were likely to hear, even the nearby wolves. “It’s alright. I need to speak with Peter for a minute, okay?”

Peter realized Scott had been listening for Isaac’s heart or breathing; he’d taken notice of the signs of anxiety, and for immediately tried to sooth the omega. It might have been the first time Peter considered Scott as an Alpha rather a pup. He hadn’t been much older than Scott himself when he’d become Pack Leader himself.

“Everything’s going to be just fine,” Scott continued soothingly, for Isaac’s benefit only, “Peter and I just need to clear the air a little before things go any further.”

He could either shrug off the irrational anger at the other alpha’s assumption and _deal_ , or Peter could give into the overwhelming urge to tell Scott to fuck off before he tossed the phone into the woods. Honestly, right up until Isaac finally placed the device in his outstretched hand, Peter wasn’t sure which way he’d go.

Wordlessly, Peter turned off the speaker-phone and took off into the woods. He walked far enough from the house that even his Alpha senses couldn’t make out anything from the rest of his pack. Only then did he raise the phone to his ear with a respectable degree of calm.

“Scott,” he said mildly.

“Peter?”

“I’ll be blunt,” he warned, “I’m not interested in letting Isaac get close to you while another omega’s fickle desires continue dictating his chances,”

If a wince had a sound, Scott made it then, “Would it make any difference if I admitted Stiles was drunk when he left you that message.”

“No,”

“Yeah… I get it. Look, Stiles wants this. He does. He’s just… intimidated, I think.”

Peter sighed, “Has he really been unavailable this entire week, or has he simply refused to speak with me as a prospective mate,”

He didn’t bother making it a question, and Scott didn’t pretend it was one. “You kind of scared the bejeezus out of him. Or pissed him off. I’m a little unsure exactly how he took it, actually.”

Something vaguely resembling hurt lanced through his chest. It was ridiculous. This omega he knew nothing about was ridiculous. He, _Peter_ , was even more ridiculous for thinking Scott McCall and his omega-not-quite-emissary might patch up a few holes in the Hale pack’s walls for him.

Yet again, Peter was reminded that he was better off addressing the problem himself.

“I don’t have the luxury of waiting for him to sort that out, Scott. If you want to continue anything with Isaac, I’m sorry, but you’ll need to compromise. I won’t risk my omega’s heart like that.”

Scott was silent for a long moment. Peter could hear the irregular snitching of claws on wood, as if the young alpha were picking at something while he externalized his frustration. Or maybe Peter was just projecting.

“What if...” Scott began, as if he was warming up to the idea himself, “You came here. For a visit, I mean.”

“I hardly think that will help Isaac if—”

“No, not Isaac. You.”

“…Me? I… Why would I do that?”

He had had a pack full of distraught youths he had to help navigate some serious growing pains. Marin Morrel was setting up shop in his territory. There was an unknown, unmated alpha wolf waltzing around, well within sniffing range of his omegas. Peter highly doubted now was the time for him to take any sort of vacation.

Scott sighed as if he thought Peter was being the unreasonable one. “I get it, Peter. I totally get wanting to protect your packmate. I’d do the same in your position. But maybe we’ve been tackling this the wrong way. Maybe instead of trying to hook me up with Isaac, we should try smoothing things out with You and Stiles first.”

Peter scoffed. He wasn’t about to waste his time and resources on an omega who could only be bothered with him when he was drunk.

“No, listen!” Scott cut him off before he could begin, “I know Stiles. He’s ambitious and he wants the whole emissary gig, yeah, but a good part of his motivation comes from simply wanting to do the things he’s told he can’t.”

Peter folded his one arm over his chest, hand tucked into the elbow supporting the phone at his ear. “You’re point?”

“My point is,” Scott reiterated sharply, “Now that he’s actually got a chance, he’s having to face the reality of getting mated. He’s been so fixated on the emissary thing that he’s never really considered what that means for his romantic prospects.”

“ _Romantic_ …?” Peter choked. Actually choked. On his tongue. Of all the things he hadn’t expected to include in this conversation….

“I guess he’s remembered he’s still an omega,” Scot said, sounding a little crestfallen, “And maybe he wants a happy ending with the lover and the kids and all that, after all.”

Peter didn’t know what to say to that.

“Just come to San Diego,” it was more of a plea than a command, “Please, Peter. You’re the first alpha I’ve talked to who would even entertain the idea of mating him, and you know I’d be good to Isaac. _You know it_.”

And the really infuriating part of it was…. Peter did.

“Scott…” Peter tried, he really did try, to keep the incredulity out of his voice, “I’m only looking for a mate because the Council’s half way up my ass.” So maybe he wasn’t all that successful in the attempt.

“I know. I know. But… Can’t you just… I don’t know. Try?”

Peter actually threw his hands up in bewilderment. Shaking his head like it’d bring him any degree of clarity, Peter brought the phone back to his ear.

He grimaced as he snarked: “Try what, exactly?”

“You _know_ ,” Scott whined.

“No, Scott. I don’t know. Enlighten me,”

“Look, just… come down here for a weekend or something. Get to know him. Maybe try a little wooing—”

“Wooing,” Peter repeated. He wasn’t entirely sure if he should feel insulted or not.

“Yeah,” Scott said cheerily, like they were finally on the same page. They weren’t. “Give him a little romance. Maybe let him see that you’re not some big bad wolf about to rip his throat out for being his typical little shit self.”

Peter shifted uncomfortable despite himself. “I didn’t actually scare him that badly. Surely,”

“Eh. I don’t know. Stiles doesn’t have what you’d call a typical fear response most of the time.”

“Fascinating,” Peter said sarcastically.

“Oh yeah, you two will get along great. Come visit us, Peter.”

“I can’t. I have a few too many unwanted guests of my own at the mo—” Peter froze, mid-word, as a thought occurred to him.

“Dude, what just happened? You just cut off and I swear you’re heart skipped a beat,”

Perhaps Scott McCall could fix a few things for him after all, if only temporarily.

“Alright,” he agreed breezily, “I’ll come down this week. How about tomorrow evening?”

“Wha—for real!?”

“Yes. On one condition: I’m bringing a plus one, an omega. No, not Isaac,” he added, rolling his eyes when Scott made an excited hum. “I have another omega in my pack who could do with a little… space.”

Scott laughed. “Sure. Hell, you could bring the whole pack down, if you’re willing to give it another try with Stiles,”

“That won’t be necessary,” Peter assured him.

In fact, that would defeat the purpose of getting Derek out of town for a bit. After all, if he didn’t leave Laura and Malia behind, at minimum, Marin’s _visiting alphas_ might still be there when they got back.


	5. Five

Well. Marin’s visiting alphas definitely _wouldn’t_ be there when they got back from San Diego.

Derek roared.

Jackson Whitmore went flying through the living room’s bay window.

“Nice,” Malia commented, genuine appreciation in her tone.

“Hale!” Alpha Whitmore screamed, turning blazing red eyes on Peter. “Just what kind of scam are you running here!? You best get that omega under control!”

Derek bared his fangs at the older alpha, claws and muscles flexing.

Peter was almost tempted to let his nephew have at it. If Whitmore was anything like his son, than Derek was more than a match for the refined sleazeball. What was it Erica called him? Ah. Douche canoe.

“I’d rather not,” he said as he stepped between Derek and the current target of his ire. “But I’ll be happy to forward you the bill for damaging my window,”

The other alpha’s eyes went comically wide as he choked on his over inflated ego, “How dare you! Do you know who I am!?”

“Pack Leader to the largest pack in the American continent?” Peter replied flippantly, “I believe you mentioned it once or twice,”

“At least,” Laura grumbled under her breath while Erica and Isaac giggled.

“I have _connections_ ,” the alpha snarled the word like it was the ultimate threat, his face nearly purple with rage. It was impressive, much like a toddler’s tantrum. “ _Connections_!” he stressed, “Within the Council and more besides! You think you can embarrass us like this and then demand any sort of… of… _reparations_!?”

Peter pointed out the shattered window where Jackson was grumpily brushing glass off his pristine backside. “Your son’s head _did_ damage my property,”

Whitmore snarled, and for such a classy guy he sure knew how to make the spittle fly. “ _You_ are a sorry excuse for a Pack Leader with more nerve than sense! It’s no wonder you’re surrounded by feral pups, you can’t even keep a single _second-hand bitch_ in line!”

That did it.

Peter didn’t pause to see if Derek or Laura would react to that insult, he was too quick to respond himself. Alpha Whitmore didn’t going sailing harmlessly through the window after his son. Oh no. Peter sliced straight through that Gucci blazer and tore into the meat of the other alpha’s chest. He didn’t go deep enough to seriously maim, but deep enough to hurt even a Pack Alpha for a few days.

Then he tossed Whitmore through the window.

In the immediate silence that followed, Peter was hyper aware of the scent of misery and shame wafting off of Derek. With all the recent exertion, the whole room went stink of it before too long.

Peter turned red eyes on the first person who moved: Marin Morrell.

“The next time you feel like bringing any friends over unannounced,” he snarled, voice low and deadly, “Don’t,”

For her credit, Marin simply nodded and made her way out the door. She didn’t try to scold him. Maybe she might have earlier, but he’d seen her mildly disapproving expression at the unfolding conflict go blank and cold the moment the word ‘second-hand’ passed Whitmore’s lips.

Peter was still seething with rage, every protective instinct he had firing, when he heard Laura cuddling up to her brother behind him.

“Son of bitch was way out of line,” she whispered hotly.

Derek shrugged her off with a sharp jerk of his shoulders. Wordlessly, he pushed passed her.

“Derek,” Peter called, voice stern and loud as a smack. Once he heard Derek go still, knew he had his attention, he continued in that tone that meant business, “Get your things and meet me out front in ten. We’re leaving.”

While Derek packed for San Diego, Peter helped Laura Google search for window repair shops in Beacon Hills. By the time his nephew came stomping down the stairs in his own personal cloud of anger and dread, the mundane task had nearly cleared Peter’s own head.

Nearly. Not quite.

It was a very long, very silent and sullen five-hour drive for both of them.

The only break in that silence came at a gas station. Derek slid into the Mercedes’ passenger’s seat and tossed a bag of Cheetos into Peter’s lap, along with a Dr. Pepper into the driver’s cupholder. Peter stared at the snacks for a moment, then took off his sunglasses so he could pin Derek to the leather cushion with his stare.

“What do you need?” he asked, as cool and unassuming as he could.

Derek shrugged, not meeting his eye.

Peter sighed, started the car than sat back as if he hadn’t just started the engine and had nowhere to go. After a moment, he caved and spoke again, face to the wheel.

“We can’t keep going like this, Derek. Something’s got to give. We only have a year.”

Derek crossed his arms, fingers gripping the arms of his leather jacket just a little too hard. He scowled down at his knees. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw him give a single, reluctant nod.

It wasn’t enough, not even close.

Peter gripped the steering wheel, his own knuckles going white. He didn’t drive off. Not yet.

Was it too early for scare tactics, he wondered.

“I don’t know what the Council will do with you if you don’t mate,” he admitted. “I doubt they’d force you, not after everything.”

He hesitated, and in the pause Derek’s only response was to let his every body part coil tighter with tension.

“But,” he continued finally. “I do know they issued me an ultimatum. I can’t be your alpha anymore, pup; either we find you a mate, or you and the others get shipped off to other packs. Best case scenario.”

Peter tried to ignore the salty tang in the air as Derek fought hard not to cry beside him. He really did try, but Peter wasn’t half as tough as he pretended to be. He reached out and squeezed the omega’s leg; he was going for reassuring, but he thought it probably came across as imploring. Which wasn’t wrong.

“I want more than this for you,”

Then he released Derek’s leg and put the car in drive. He spent the last leg of the journey stubbornly refusing to draw any more unwanted attention as his nephew cried himself to sleep. It turned out to be a good thing, since Derek woke up dry eyed and his typical sullen self just as they were getting off the interstate.

And then they were in front of the homey little duplex that made up the San Diego Pack’s home. A uniformed deputy was sitting on the stoop waiting for them. Peter fought not to wrinkle his nose when he got a whiff of the smoke and ash cloying the guy’s scent.

“Alpha Hale?” The deputy asked, meeting his eye directly.

“Alpha McCall is expecting me,” Peter assured him, probably redundantly given the guy knew his name.

This earned him a curt nod and outstretched hand, “Jordan Parish. I’m Scott’s Second,”

Derek tilted his head as he stared at Parish, “You’re… a wolf?”

Deputy Parish cracked a grin, “Hell Hound, actually.”

Peter and Derek stared.

The hell hound’s grin widened, “Our pack’s a bit… unorthodox. It happens in the more metropolitan areas sometimes. We’ve got a kitsune too.”

Peter shared a look with his nephew. “I’ll admit; that’s impressive. I assumed Scott was placed with a fledgling pack,”

“He was,” Parish supplied helpfully. “Would you believe, the Council’s only official presence in So Cal has been through nomadic emissaries and Vampire covens since prohibition days?”

“You’re kidding,” Derek challenged without inflection.

“Not even a little bit. This city’s had more than it’s fair share of strays and lone wolves, but it wasn’t till Scott came along that anyone tried to band any of them together with any success.”

That certainly explained why the Council had put Scott’s application for a mate at the top of Peter’s consideration pile. Wolf packs did wonders for balancing and maintaining the magical energies of a given territory. He could only imagine how eager the Council must be to finally have one establishing itself in such a supernatural hot spot as San Diego.

Parish led them into the larger of the conjoined units. “Officially, it’s just the five of us: Scott’s our alpha, and the betas are me, Kira, Liam, and Hayden. We’re pretty tight with the local Hunters and a banshee Scott and Stiles went to grade school with, too. And of course, we all consider Stiles our omega, but as you know, he’s human and not actually blood-related to the pack.”

“Hell hounds and hunters, and banshees, oh my,” Peter snarked under his breath.

Derek rewarded him with a smirk. Parish didn’t comment, and Peter clued in to the fact that acute hearing was not, apparently, a hell hound trait.

“Stiles,” Derek rolled the name on his tongue, looking at Peter curiously, “That’s his name? Stiles.”

Peter shrugged and answered the question Derek was really asking: “We’ll see.”

Because really, he had no idea if he and this omega could pull this off.

“Scott, me, and Kira live on this side of the divide,” Parish continued explaining as he led them upstairs and down a hall. “Liam and Hayden are next door, but they take their meals over here with us most of the time, when they’re not eating on campus,”

“What about Stiles?” Peter asked, genuinely curious. Official pack or not, no wolf would want an unmated omega of theirs beyond safe reach. Especially not an alpha.

“Stiles is…” Parish gave an awkward laugh, “let’s just say ‘ _special’_ is an understatement. He has a certain amount of freedom you wouldn’t normally expect. This is the guestroom, by the way,”

Peter paused just outside the open doorway. Maybe he was still flustered from Whitmore’s verbal jab, but he was momentarily alarmed by the implications. Surely, Scott wasn’t so young and reckless that he would leave his omega sleeping outside the safety of the pack, night after night. Peter was largely considered a nontraditional Pack Leader, but even he wouldn’t take that risk.

Parish must have seen something of his thoughts on his face. “His father’s the county sheriff, certified to carry silver, holy water, you name it,” he hurried to reassure him, “and on nights he’s not home, Stiles stays here with us. Scott and I make sure of it. And besides, Stiles… he’s got a hell of a magic spark at his disposal. Trust me, if anyone tried to mess with him, they’d regret it pretty damn quick.”

Derek, bored with the conversation, swept past him to enter the guestroom and effectively left Peter in the hall to address this absurd claim.

The rational part of Peter, the part that had calmly watched Derek throw an alpha through a window only that morning, wanted to relax and let it go. The irrational, Pack Alpha-inspired part of him that had apparently been warming to the idea of mating the omega in question, however…

“He’s human,” Peter stated in blunt dismay.

He was well aware that Derek’s wolf blood was only part of the reason he could go toe-to-toe with any average alpha. That sort of thinking didn’t seem to mean much at the moment.

The hell hound frowned back at him, not seeing the issue. “He’s magic,” he countered. Like it was that simple.

“He’s _ripe_ ,” Derek corrected.

Peter and the hell hound peered into the room to see Derek digging underneath the pillows piled at the head of the bed. A second later, the omega stood up straight, holding a bright red hoodie in front of him at arm’s length.

“Jesus. Hasn’t anyone told him about Heat meds.” Derek sneered at the offensive garment and tossed it toward the door.

Reflexively, Peter caught it. Holy Mary, mother of God. The scent of slick and desire and warmwetwelcomeing _omega_ hit him in the face full-force. It made Peter’s head spin.

Peter had been living with two fully matured omegas for the past several years. He liked to think he had an above average tolerance for the sort of pheromones they pumped out on a monthly basis.

This was, apparently, a big fat lie.

“I sincerely hope this wasn’t left here intentionally,” Peter handed the sweatshirt to a blushing Parish with carefully precise movements. In his head, he was busy telling himself that no, he was absolutely not going to hunt down the little shit and eat him.

Maybe he would eat him. Eventually. In a fashion.

“Uh… I don’t think so,” Parish was still red as he began chuckling and rubbing beneath his nose. It seemed Hell Hounds had an animal’s developed olfactory senses, at least.

They all winced at the squeak of metal and rust rang through the house. It didn’t stop Derek from forcing the window open all the way.

“I am so sorry,” Parish whined, mortified, “Kira changed the sheets just yesterday, I swear. I have no idea how this ended up there…”

Peter clasped his hands to keep from stealing the sweatshirt back and burying his face in it. “I’m sure. Listen, that is very… very fresh. If Stiles is nearing a heat, now might not be the best time for this visit,”

“He’s not,” Parish insisted, “I saw him just last night. He’s fine.”

“I wouldn’t have invited you now if he wasn’t.” Scott McCall said as he came down the hall toward them.

Fuck him. Peter had been so distracted by the damn scent, he hadn’t even registered the other alpha’s arrival. What the actual flying fuck.

Peter smiled tightly to keep from growling as Scott took the sweatshirt out of Parish’s hand and hid it behind his back with a bashful, crooked grin. As if that would do any good.

“Sorry about that,” Scott’s complexion made it hard to tell if he was blushing, but Peter recognized the embarrassment and trepidation rolling off him just the same, “Stiles likes to steal catnaps in there between classes sometimes, since we’re so much closer to the SDCU than his dad’s place.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, “Oh? And do those naps usually include masturbation, or was that little gift meant for my benefit?”

Scott and Parish both winced.

“I ugh…” Scott rubbed the back of his neck before throwing the hand up in defeat and admitting: “I didn’t actually tell him you were coming,”

“So that…” Parish added, slow and helpful, “Would be a ‘no’…?”

“Derek,” Peter beckoned his nephew from where he was sticking his head out the window melodramatically. “Come on, we’re leaving,”

Scott blanched. “What? But--!”

“Relax,” Peter held up a hand to ward off further protests. “We’ll find a hotel. We can come back for dinner once Stiles’ classes are done for the day,”

“And he’s done a load of laundry,” Derek added grouchily.

It was probably a sign of how embarrassed they were that neither Scott or Parish bothered with further token arguments. Peter wish he could enjoy the reprieve, but they hadn’t even closed the Mercedes’ doors before Derek was staring at him suspiciously.

“What,” he barked, slamming his door without meeting his nephew’s eye.

Derek just kept staring, making no immediate move for his door or seatbelt.

“What.” Peter growled, starting the car anyway.

Derek’s eyes narrowed.

“I _will_ smack you,” Peter warned. It was an empty threat, and they both knew it, but it sounded good anyway.

Derek’s searching gaze seemed to find whatever it was hunting for. Those dark, heavy brows lifted in mocking surprise.

“I will hit you so hard,” Peter growled. “Close the damn door.”

The omega obeyed, then he waited till they were moving at a decent speed before he finally made a noise.

“Slick-drunk off a single sniff, huh?”

“Shut up, Derek.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Derek nodding to himself. He couldn’t tell if the other wolf was amused or disgusted though. Possibly both. Derek was complicated like that.

“It wasn’t heat,” Derek volunteered minutes later as Peter pulled into a generic looking hotel’s lot.

“What was that?” Peter hadn’t expected Derek to keep talking, and he’d be stupid not to encourage it even if he had comprehended what was said. He parked the car, then left one hand resting on the wheel while he waited for Derek to speak.

“His scent,” Derek answered easily enough, “On the sweater. It wasn’t heat. Probably not even slick.”

It startled a laugh out of the alpha. Truly.

Derek smirked, maybe even gave a silent chuckle of his own. “It was probably just sweat. Pheromones.”

Peter shook his head, incredulous. “Whatever you’re getting at, Derek… Why? Why are we even talking about this,”

Derek shrugged, “You reacted,”

“No shit,”

He didn’t like the understanding in Derek’s aquamarine eyes when they stared him down. “Malia was right, you know.”

He sighed impatiently. “About?”

“You deserve to be happy too.”

With that, Derek decided he’d reached his word count for the day and he got out of the car. It took Peter a long moment to recover from that little bomb, longer than he was proud to admit, and by the time he’d followed Derek inside the lobby, he wasn’t surprised to see Derek had secured them a room.

They ended up with an elevator all to themselves. Peter watched the floor numbers slowly crawl by on the digital display. They passed the eighth floor when he finally found the wherewithal to speak again.

“I am happy,” he insisted.

Derek hummed, unconvinced.

“Alright. I’m satisfied,” he corrected.

Derek gave him full onceover, doubt all over him.

“I’m satisfied,” he repeated, with more conviction. “I have my pack, my territory,” he smirked, “my glowing reputation.”

Derek snorted.

“It’s enough,” Peter affirmed, letting the flicker of humor die out gracefully. “You don’t need to worry about me.”


	6. Six

Peter Hale was an inherently selfish creature. It might not seem like it often, but the truth was: everything he did was motivated by self-interest. He loved his family, his pack, and there was a shockingly short list of things he wasn’t willing to do for them, but that was just another way of making his own life easier. More peaceful. Dare he say _happier_. He was selfish like that.

There was nothing selfish about his interest in the McCall pack though. They were a means to an end, nothing more. For Isaac’s sake, not his own. Isaac was the one who wanted a mate, wanted _Scott_ , and the Council was simply forcing Peter along for the ride. If he’d had it his way, he’d assure Isaac was happily mated and never give the San Diego pack another thought beyond the expected annual Christmas card.

Peter selfishly didn’t care about the mess of an omega Scott was trying to pass off on him. Not unless he could make Peter’s life a little easier.

That was the thought foremost in his head when he and Derek returned to the duplex for dinner.

The thought faded like ancient history the moment his knock was answered.

“You’re late, Ar—Oh. Hello. You must be… Peter?”

The omega holding the door open, blocking the entrance with sprawling limbs and pale skin and bright honey eyes—it had to have been Stiles. The taunting perfume of sex from the sweatshirt was missing, but Peter had no problem recognizing the scent jus the same: it was pure, undiluted _omega_ ; it was everything comforting and inviting and sweet, with just a hint of something electric and powerful that made Peter’s animal brain perk up and smile.

This boy was dangerous, he realized as they faced off in the doorway.

“You must be Stiles,” Peter said smoothly, arching a brow as the omega continued to hog the doorway without inviting them in.

Large amber eyes gave him a slow once over, his eyebrows inching closer to his hairline as he went. Peter’s inner wolf wanted to stick out his chest for the perusal and he had to remind himself not to act like idiot. He was an unapologetic asshole at times, but he was _not_ an idiot. 

“The one and only.” Stiles’ expression looked a little stiff as he met Peter’s eye, “And you’re Alpha Hale. Of course you are. That’s... Perfect.”

“Is it,” Peter commented rather than asked. He bristled internally at the sarcastic way the omega uttered that last word.

The chemosignals he was giving off didn’t smell disappointed though. As he realized who was standing on the welcome mat, Stiles’ scent went haywire with a collage of emotions. Surprise. Anxiety. Excitement. Curiosity. Embarrassment. The tiniest bit of something hot and vaguely reminiscent of anger. Arousal.

Despite himself, Peter felt his cock twitch and a subvocal rumble too low for human ears started up in his chest in response.

“Jesus,” Derek cursed grouchily at his side.

Peter elbowed him. Hard.

“Perhaps you’d like to invite us in,” Peter prompted Stiles with his most charming smile.

Stiles blinked. Once. Twice. Then he let go of the doorknob and crossed his skinny arms over his chest and planted his feet, chin up and lips pursed in an unimpressed pout that was inexplicably laughable and _adorable_.

“Depends. Are you going to apologize for threatening me?”

Oh no. No. No. No.

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said shortly. Maybe, just maybe he packed a bit of a _second_ threat into the word. He couldn’t resist.

Stiles’ spine stiffened and Peter got to inhale the scent of blossoming indignation and excitement. There was no suggestion of slick in the air, but he gave off something sweet and zesty that made Peter want to lick his lips.

Then the little shit shut the door in his face.

And Peter _wanted_.

Standing on the doorstep listening to Stiles stomp off into the house, Peter looked over his shoulder at his nephew’s peeved expression.

“We’re trading Isaac for Stiles.” he informed him succinctly.

He didn’t give a damn about Scott McCall or his infantile pack, but holy shit did he want that omega. McCall could have Isaac for that price, no questions asked. Because Peter _was_ selfishly. So, so selfish.

Derek just huffed a sigh.

Peter knocked on the door again, delivering three precise, cheerfully loud and obnoxious taps. Then, because he could, he promptly hit the doorbell. Repeatedly.

There were three werewolves inside the house, and all three of them howled and raced for the door to cut off the noise.

“Some free advice,” Peter grinned at Scott’s unamused grimace when he opened the door, “Always disable the doorbell of any house you make your den. They don’t mesh well with sensitive ears.”

“Good to know,” Scott grumbled begrudgingly, but the glare was aimed at the offending mechanism in question.

“That was rude and unnecessary,” Stiles’ voice yelled from within the house, the kitchen probably.

Before his brain could catch up with his instincts, Peter raised his voice just enough to reach human ears, “Coincidentally, so are you,”

The young female wolf standing behind Scott cackled. “You have _no_ idea.”

Stiles’ tousled head popped out of the wide entryway to the dining and cooking section of the home. “I heard that, traitor. Stop fraternizing with the enemy,”

Scott threw his head back with a groan and spoke with the clear knowledge that he would be ignored, “Peter’s not the enemy, Stiles,”

Peter shot Stiles a wolfish grin, “I can be, if you’d like.”

The female doubled over with mirth. “Oh, Stiles! I think I’ll leave the fraternizing to you, yeah?”

“Shut up, Hayden,” Stiles told her mildly, then he stuck his nose up at Peter and announced, “You, sir, are a cad.” He started to turn away, then spun back on his heel to add: “And _mean_.”

Scott gave a long-suffering sigh.

The baby-faced beta wolf beside him gave Peter and Derek a pained smile, “Please take him with you. Please. I beg you,”

“Shut up. You love me,” Stiles reminded him emphatically.

“Sorry about that,” Scott murmured as the betas ran after the omega for some more taunting.

“No need,” Peter assured him.

“He likes him,” Derek informed Scott in a monotone that said volumes about his personal feelings on the observation.

Scott gave Peter a hopeful little puppyish grin. “Really? He hasn’t killed his chances yet?”

Peter rolled his eyes, “Not just yet, no.”

Derek snorted. Then he took a sharp breath as tension invaded his body and he turned to flash omega-gold eyes behind him at the front door.

Peter put a hand on his nephew shoulder and held fast. “Relax. They’re not that kind of Hunter.”

“Hope you don’t mind,” Scott said sheepishly. “Lydia was here when I told Stiles you were coming for dinner, and next thing I know she invited herself and the Argents along. They’re sort of honorary pack and I didn’t feel right telling the to keep clear,”

Peter gave Scott a calm smile, but kept a firm hand on Derek, “It’s fine. We know Christopher. Don’t we, Derek?”

At least Derek wasn’t growling, even if he remained taut as a pulled bow string. He nodded once as he backed away from the door and pressed along Peter’s side. Like the good Pack Alpha he was, Peter welcomed the omega to tuck in against him. He hoped it was enough reassurance to remind Derek he was safe.

Because it wasn’t Chris Argent’s scent that was triggering the omega, it was the female alpha with him.

Scott watched them with a deep, considerate frown.

Peter shrugged with a casualness that was at odds with the protective arm he had wrapped around Derek’s shoulders. “We have a certain history with the Argents,” he explained gently, “It’s fine. Chris and I have working relationship and I trust him. Everything’s fine,”

This last was repeated purely for Derek’s benefit as the Argents let themselves through the door.

Derek pressed even tighter to his side for a moment as the young woman waltzed in like she belonged. She was dark haired with a dimpled smile that was as far removed from the dead woman she smelled like as it was possible to be.

Still. It wasn’t enough to make Derek accept her outstretched hand like a well-adjusted person.

“I’m Alison,” she dropped her hand without taking offense and turned that smile on Peter, “Long time, no see, Peter. Dad bet you probably wouldn’t remember me. Care to help me make a quick twenty bucks?”

Peter laughed even though it wasn’t that funny. Derek leaned into the shaking of his torso and Peter thought he relaxed just the smallest bit.

“Give me a cut, and I’ll back your play all evening,” he assured her.

“Deal,” Allison turned to Chris with an outstretched hand. “Pay up, old man,”

“That’s cheating,” the human alpha told them both mildly, “You can’t conspire right in front of me and expect a payout,”

“Not reasonably, no,” Peter admitted readily, “But you’re the only one being reasonable and we outnumber you,”

“So you’re a _thief_ too!?” Stiles cried, sticking his head out again. “Wow, Scotty, you really know how to pick ‘em.”

Scott’s jaw tensed and for a minute Peter wondered if he was going to start yelling. He didn’t. The young alpha just took a breath and gave Peter an exhausted look, “He’s always like this. I swear he’s worth it. On my life, Peter, I swear.”

Chris chuckled, and the sound made Derek give a small start, “I see you met Stiles,”

“I did,” Peter admitted with a grin.

“And what a harmonious meeting it must have been,” came a smooth, utterly disinterested female voice.

A tiny red head in shiny pumps and a pencil skirt sashayed into the house. She stepped around Alison without looking up from the smart phone in her hand, and only paused as she was about to pass Peter and Derek. She gave them both a single once over and quirked a brow when she finished and met Peter’s gaze.

“Hurt him, and I’ll end you,” she said casually and without pretense. Banshee’s didn’t have a secondary gender, but she reminded him of Malia in the way her attitude absolutely screamed _alpha_.

Peter did her the courtesy of taking her seriously. “That’s acceptable. Banshee.”

Her smile then was appreciative but reluctant and closed-lipped. “Lydia,”

“A pleasure,”

“We’ll see.” She gave him another shrewd once-over and sighed resignedly, “Most likely, yes.”

Without another word, she traipsed off toward the smell of grilling meat and melted cheese. Alison followed behind her, giving Derek a small wave and squeezing Scott’s forearm on her way.

“Right. So… dinner?” Scott said, moving to follow the women.

Peter nodded, but didn’t fall in behind the younger Alpha. Derek was pretty much glued in place, and he had the distinct impression he wasn’t ready to be without his Alpha’s comfort.

He wasn’t the only one.

“They’ll be a minute,” he heard Scott tell the crowd in the other room.

Chris took two careful, slow steps closer to Derek and lowered his head just enough to catch Derek’s eye. “Would you like us to go?” he asked the omega directly, voice mellow and unconcerned.

Peter tightened his grip, and between the two of them and a whole lot of calm patience, Derek slowly eased a bit. Peter fully expected him to scowl and ignore the question, forcing the alphas to figure it out themselves. He was truly shocked when instead, Derek shimmied Peter’s arm off his shoulders and stood tall till Christ no longer had to duck to hold eye contact.

“It’s fine,” he answered, parroting Peter from earlier.

Chris rewarded him with a small smile. “Good. Alright if I touch you?”

Peter saw Derek’s shoulders tighten and reached out to grip his nape reassuringly. The omega glanced at him uncertainly.

“Up to you, pup,” Peter murmured as casually and disinterested as he could possibly pretend to be.

Derek scowled. He turned that frown on Chris, but didn’t quite meet his eye as he gave a jerky nod. He didn’t look proud about giving his clear consent, but Peter could smell the aching need and hopeful trepidation rolling off him, so it was okay. Peter could be proud enough for him.

Chris removed one hand from his pocket and raised it, movements lazy and unthreatening. His fingertips touched the omega’s cheek, just barely, and swept up his face to rush through his hair, over the shell of his ear.

Derek trembled.

Peter followed the shift in his scent, Derek’s eagerness and pleasure startling him into realizing how touch-starved his nephew had made himself over the years. He watched Chris’ finger repeat the caress once, twice more, before that hopefully telling smell turned rancid with encroaching sadness and then a spike of consuming anger. 

Derek jerked away from Chris’s touch, out from under Peter’s palm.

Peter moved quickly to catch hold of the omega’s wrist before he could run out the door, panicking, into an unfamiliar city.

“Easy, Derek,” Chris whispered. His hand went back into his pocket and he took a measure step back.

The easy flow of conversation in the other room stuttered to a halt. The other wolves had been trying so hard to give them some privacy, but someone must have finally let on to the humans in the room that something was up.

“Anything we can do to help,” Scott offered casual from a room away.

“Do we need to cut the evening short, Derek?” Peter said, putting the answer in Derek’s control.

Derek didn’t speak. He huffed and tried to yank his arm free; when he couldn’t, the anger began to overwhelming the panic within his scent.

There was the sound of chair legs scrapping the floor and a moment later Scott was leaning against the wall and whispering so only Peter and Derek could hear: “We cleared out the guest room all afternoon. With the window closed, it’s decently sound proofed.”

Derek didn’t need further prompting. He changed his focus from the door to the stairs, and Peter released him instantly. Both Alpha wolves listened attentively as his footsteps raced to the bedroom and the door slammed shut as his breathing became harsh and furious. There was the faintest hint of salt in the air, but the omega was safely in the room before his tears could be obvious beneath the spices being used for dinner.

It was infuriating. The more Peter began to hope that Derek was beginning to move beyond his past seemed directly linked to how often the poor omega cried lately. Time and therapy hadn’t helped, he must have been insane to think an impromptu working vacation would do any better.

“We’ll hear him if he springs the window,” Scott assured him. “He’s safe, and he’s welcome to stay up there as long as he needs,”

“Thank you,”

“I didn’t realize he was still struggling so hard,” Chris murmured. It was dangerously close to sounding like an apology, and that wasn’t something they did. “If I’d known, Alison and I wouldn’t have come tonight.”

Peter rolled his eyes, only half joking as he said, “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Christopher. Let’s eat.”

By unspoken agreement, everyone at least tried to pretend nothing unpleasant had happened. Alison hadn’t witnessed anything by eye or ear, but she was smart and had enough guilt by association that her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes for a while. Hayden and Liam were subdued compared to the bubbly and sarcastic jokers who had greeted them at the door. Jordan was quieter too, preoccupied as he was with constantly looking between Scott, Peter and Chris, like he was trying hard to figure something out.

The only people successfully unaffected, whether genuinely or by pure force of will, were Stiles and Lydia. The latter was perfectly aloof and uninterested in anything beyond her meal and preserving her manicure. The former was all over the place.

Literally and figuratively.

“—so eat your damn vegetables, Jordan. And like it.” Stiles was insisting a brief while later as he rounded the table to return the salad bowl to the spot next to the hell hound’s plate.

Jordan’s lip curled exaggeratedly as he poked at the green leaves. “Do I have to,” he said, voice too deep and amused to pull off the petulant child act he was going for.

Stiles was already tripping over the floor on his way back to his seat beside Lydia. “Yes. You do. Because Pack Mom says so.”

“You’re not Pack Mom,” Liam reminded him, eyes darting over to Peter for the first time since he’d sat at the table.

“Well, not _our_ Pack Mom.” the pretty kitsune, Kira, on Stiles’ other side patted the top of his head as if he were her own kit, “But your time will come,”

“Sooner than later, I would hope,” Peter commented, staring at the omega over the rim of his glass. When Stiles glared at him, he winked obnoxiously.

“In your dreams, maybe,”

Peter leered, “Most definitely,”

Stiles pinned him with a suspicious glare and pointed at him with one long, skinny finger. Peter was tempted to lean across the table and nip at it. “You think you’re being cute and charming—”

“No,” Peter interrupted coolly and took small sip from his water glass before he made the correction, “ _You_ think I’m being cute and charming.”

“Where the hell do you get off—!”

“They’re your words, not mine,”

“Oh, yeah? Well here’s a few more for you: fuck you.”

Peter blinked at him, lowering his beverage back to the table in surprise, “Why, Stiles. I thought you’d at least buy me dinner first.”

Lydia shook her finger in the Alpha’s direction as Stiles spluttered and blushed, “Touché,”

Chris and Scott were both shaking with laughter from opposite ends of the table, Alison and Kira snickering with more self-control. Liam bit into his burger with a noise of resignation as he glowered at Stiles with nothing but blame in his stare.

“I’m done with this,” Stiles hopped to his feet and began piling his half-full plate and an assortment of extra condiments angrily.

Peter loved it, watching his flurrying movements and remarkably expressive face. As he strode away to eat in presumed peace at the kitchen counter, he got a good look at his backside and the way it sawyed with his gait, and Peter loved it even more.

It was especially nice how all he could smell of the omega’s emotions was galvanized excitement and sweet, sweet amusement.

For a certainty, they were both enjoying the flirtation.

Scott’s impressions of the omega’s state were starting to make a lot of sense though. Stiles’ scent spoke of exhilaration and enjoyment, yes, but there was an underlying anticipation and nervousness that was far from promising.

Logically, mating Peter made sense for getting what he wanted, but Peter could sympathize with him. It was a rough deal for someone so young, sacrificing all possibility of falling in love naturally for a strange Alpha nearly old enough to be his father and who’s pack had more issues than wolves. If he were Stiles, he probably would have turned himself down the moment Scott seriously suggested the match. 

He kept staring at Stiles, considering that carefully. Then he thought about that red hoodie and getting the boy in his bed. It didn’t take long at all to come to the conclusion that he didn’t care.

He was selfish and he wanted Stiles. It helped that as the night wore on, it looked more and more like he just might be able to make Stiles happy on top of that.

By the time he was ready to collect Derek and leave for the hotel, there was nothing Peter wanted more.

Derek made a soft noise of inquiry as they drove back to the hotel. He was relaxed and sleepy in his seat, and the closest to peaceful Peter had seen him in a while, no matter the fact he’d spent the evening alone in a stranger’s spare room.

Peter patted his leg gently with the back of his hand, "Go to sleep if you want,”

Thankfully, Derek did and left Peter to his thoughts. He was almost startled to find himself actively wanted a mate. Not just any mate, of course. His brain was quite specific about it too, painting him a picture of a happy and sated Stiles laid out in his bed, with bruises from Peter’s mouth on his throat and thighs and his skin tasting of magic.

He glanced at Derek, listening to the not-quite even enough pattern of his breathing. Damn, but he needed to adjust the situation below his belt.

Instead of conveniently falling asleep, Derek grumbled at him, “Crack a damn window or stop thinking about him.”

Peter couldn’t stop himself from smirking, and then he just had to share his discovery, since Derek was awake anyway.

“I am going to _own_ that boy,” he vowed, “And it is going to make me very, very happy.”


	7. Seven

“I hear you’re in San Diego, Peter,” a polished british accent greeted him over the phone the following morning over breakfast.

“Good morning to you too, Deucalion,”

“Indeed, it is a good morning. It would be better if you could explain why your niece seems to think I’m a forlorn and lonely bachelor,” 

Peter sighed heavily into the phone and started picking at the room service tray where it lay between him and Derek on Peter’s bed.

“Well?” Deucalion pressed when Peter gave no further explanation.

“Well,” Peter snarked back, “I happen to know that you are, in fact, a bachelor. I don’t suppose you’ll admit to the forlorn and lonely part though,”

Across from him, Derek rolled his eyes in a way that made it clear he found Peter’s current approach lacking. Peter threw a grape at him, which was deftly swatted away.

“I have no use for a mate, Peter. You know this. Tell Laura to stop calling me,”

“I’ll do that,” Peter promised, leaning back against the hotel headboard and expecting a pineapple cube, “But since I have you on the phone, just how _did_ you convince the Council to leave you declared Alpha to a nonexistent pack in a major thoroughfare territory, exactly?”

On the other side of the phone call, Deucalion’s answering growl was soft and displeased. “Peter,” he drawled, and it sounded like a warning and rebuke all at once.

“I heard about your eyes,” Peter decided to go all in and leave the gloves off. Unrepentant, he continued, “Though the only thing that surprised me is that you’d let something like that keep you from leading a real pack like you ought to be.”

Derek went still, a bite of pancake abandoned halfway to his mouth as he stared at Peter incredulously.

Unfortunately, Deucalion didn’t take the bait nearly as easily.

“Perhaps you haven’t thought this through,” the older Alpha said patiently, “For argument’s sake, let’s entertain the idea that I might find an omega attractive to begin with: I’m more than twice her age, blind, and with various memories of changing her nappies.”

Peter gave a short laugh. “Nice try, Duke. Malia was what… seven? Maybe eight, the last time you saw her. You didn’t help raise her and you have no idea who she grew up to be.”

“Indeed,”

“I think she’d surprise you. And so does Laura,”

“You forget,” Duke continued in that baldly condescending tone Peter was so familiar with, even after so many years, “ _You_ have no idea who _I_ grew to be either. You would hand your only child off to a virtual stranger? For shame, Peter,”

“Eh. I’m not all that attached to begin with,” Peter lied easily, “And if you were that changed from the Alpha I remember, the Council would have put someone else in charge of LA long before now.”

He struck gold with that one.

Deucalion finally lost his cool and got huffy. “Why on earth would you want me to mate Malia? What could you possibly hope to accomplish? Surely not securing her any degree of pleasure or satisfaction.”

“Funny enough, that’s exactly what I hope for,” Peter admitted.

Deucalion came as close to sputtering as Peter had ever heard. “Peter!” he cried, bewildered and alarmed, “Have you gone mad. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do with an _omega_ ,” he spat the word like it was actual filth in his mouth.

“Malia is proudly atypical for her gender,” Peter replied breezily, choosing to ignore the speculation on his sanity, “Up until last week, I would have sworn she was an alpha in waiting,”

“Oh, honestly!” the other alpha sneered as if he’d reached the end of his limit with Peter’s bullshit.

Except, of course, Peter wasn’t bullshitting.

“Honestly,” he agreed, minus the sarcasm. He was only partially jesting as he continued: “She’s strong and even stronger willed, and she wants to run a pack. If the Council wasn’t likely to slap me with an omega endangerment charge, I’d probably suggest she get her tubes tied out of genuine concern she’d eat any young unfortunate enough to be birthed by her.”

At this point, Derek pursed his lips tightly and turned his stony expression to his food with deeply dedicated focus. It was as close to washing his hands of the conversation as he could get. Peter decided to take it as encouragement.

“The two of you are perfect fit,” he finished addressing Deucalion, entirely undeterred.

The posh bastard laughed and promptly hung up on him.

Peter tossed his phone on the mattress with complete disregard and told Derek cheerfully, “I think I’ll just let him think it over for a bit.”

Derek stared at him while he finished chewing, then told him seriously: “You’re mad. Certifiably.”

“It’s distinctly possible,” Peter agreed, selecting another pineapple. He retrieved his phone as he swallowed and started typing out a text.

Derek eyed him warily, “What are you doing now?”

“Telling Laura to lose Duke’s number,” Peter replied as he finished off the text. Then he smirked and kept messing with his phone, “And asking informing Scott he needs to meet us at SDSU this afternoon.”

This only seemed to make Derek more suspicious. “Why?”

“So I can treat my mate to lunch. Obviously,”

Derek frowned at the phone between his uncle’s hands. Then he sighed and set his breakfast aside. “Peter?”

“Yes, nephew?” Peter didn’t even lift his head from his phone.

If he had, he might have caught the very real concern that pinched Derek’s face. “Maybe you should ask if Stiles _wants_ to be treated to lunch,”

Peter put his phone down. He gave Derek his undivided attention.

Derek turned his eyes back toward his breakfast and it told Peter volumes. Almost as much as the sour lilt of shame and fear to his scent. 

“Beg your pardon?”

“You like him,” Derek shrugged, still avoiding eye contact, “I just think you might come on too strong—”

“Do you now,” Peter leaned forward, elbows on his knees and fingers laced together as he stared at Derek until he looked at him. “Let’s be clear, here: you and Stiles may both be omega but you’re as different as two people can be. This isn’t about him, Derek.”

Derek nodded as if he understood, but he still didn’t lift his head and his scent remained unchanged.

“Why don’t you talk to me about last night,” he suggested gently.

Derek didn’t speak, didn’t move. His scent said something though, as something almost floral and achingly wistful started to pop through as he thought about the prior evening. Interesting.

Peter remembered how Derek had reacted to Chris, an alpha and non-pack. More than that, a Hunter. By all rights, familiar face or not, Chris aught to have sent every defensive instinct Derek had into overdrive. Instead, Derek had come close to dropping his ever-present guard, just for a moment. For Christopher. Kate’s brother and probably the only other alpha still alive who knew the details about what she’d done to Derek.

It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Peter. Then again, he got the impression nothing ever did to Derek nowadays.

“Alright,” Peter sat back decisively the moment he recognized the tiniest hint of something uncharacteristically sweet in Derek’s scent. “I’ll talk then. Would you care if I talked about Christopher Argent?”

Derek finally looked at him. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, and his scent absolutely anxious and terrified and shameshameshame. The sweetness was gone like it had never existed.

Fortunately, Peter was fluent in Derek’s silence.

Nodding to himself, Peter thought aloud. “You haven’t let anyone touch you without violence outside of pack in nearly a decade. I was so proud of you last night, you don’t even know.”

The tips of Derek’s ears turned red and his expression as he stared at Peter was almost betrayed.

“I’ve been thinking all week,” he continued seamlessly, “Ever since Marin showed up, really: you’d never submit to a human again and I’d never want to ask that of you, but alpha wolves are going to have… _demands_ ,” he breathed the word and immediately disliked it, no matter how well it suited his point, “of their omega mates that I don’t think you’ll be ready to meet. Not in a year’s time. Maybe not ever,”

There was no judgment in his voice or scent, Peter knew, but Derek swallowed and looked away in shame as if there had been. His sorrow was so profound, Peter imagined even a human could smell it.

“Just say the word,” Peter whispered with utter conviction, “And Chris would do everything in his power to help you. I have no doubt of it,”

He didn’t much like the idea of using Chris’ misplaced guilt as leverage to get Derek into a reasonable safe, if loveless mating. He didn’t have to like it for it to be the best way forward though.

The truth was, if the Council was dissatisfied with the pack’s omega situation at the end of the time limit, Peter wasn’t the only one who would suffer. He truly didn’t think they’d be cruel enough to force Derek to mate, but he doubted his nephew would survive relocating to another pack regardless, as was bound to happen if Peter’s pack was dismantled. Derek was barely living as it was, surrounded by family and the only sources of comfort he’d ever known.

But Derek had responded to Chris. Christopher Argent. An alpha who Derek _knew_ would already know such intimate things about him yet had treated him with such care and compassion anyway. 

Huh. Maybe it did make some sense.

While such thoughts raced through Peter’s mind at lightspeed, Derek sat frozen on the far edge of the bed, hugging himself. Peter desperately wanted to reach out and give him the comfort an omega deserved at moments like this, but he knew better than to chance it. He was pushing Derek far enough already.

“I’m going to invite Chris to join us for lunch,” Peter decided, watching Derek closely.

The omega nodded numbly, his scent all over the place.

So Peter sent another text message while he finished his breakfast. Derek didn’t touch his again.

He was pretty much glued to his phone or computer for the rest of the morning. Being a Pack Leader was like being a work-from-home parent to not only one’s own small children, but with similar responsibilities to every supernatural being who called his territory home to widely varying degrees. That was not to mention that the job description included tending and safeguarding the natural magic inherent to the earth he was supposed to be custodian of.

Laura filled the same role well enough as his Second, but she didn’t have the magic of the earth and collective pack helping her out the way he did, lending him strength and guiding his instincts at nearly every turn. She could hold everything together for a week, two tops, while he was gone, but not without constant communication.

Peter, like most Pack Leaders, adored modern technology for this very reason. Not too long ago, Pack Leaders were bound to their territory more than just magically. Travel was a luxury for the modern Alpha wolf.

It was enough of a luxury that Peter hadn’t the faintest idea where to take Stiles for lunch and had to leave that decision in Scott’s and Chris’ hands. He regretted immediately upon seeing the restaurant.

“Christopher.” He said through gritted teeth the moment he saw the man. “What. Is. This.”

Chris grinned widely, “A food truck,”

Derek sniffed the air curiously and his dubious expression lifted as he licked his lips eagerly.

Peter smacked his hip lightly for giving his unprompted approval.

Derek smacked him back harder.

Chris chuckled, and Peter was mollified when he saw Derek’s ears go pink. Only slightly though.

“This is what I get for asking a pup and retiree for date suggestions,” Peter grumbled. “How, exactly, am I suppose to make this remotely romantic, Christopher?”

Chris rolled his eyes good naturedly. “Trust me, you don’t need to romance Stiles. Not when the food’s this good, at any rate.”

Peter eyed him doubtfully. “You better be right about that.”

He was right about that.

“Oh. My. Gawd!” Stiles moaned around a mouthful of dripping taco some twenty-odd minutes later.

Peter didn’t know whether to be horrified or enraptured. Stiles was diving into the Mexican food with a gusto that was messy and mildly disgusting to watch, but the noises leaving him were down right pornographic. Also, he was learning that Stiles could fit an impressive amount into that big mouth of his. He would revisit this knowledge later, when he wasn’t struggling to recover his own appetite at the sight of beans and guacamole smearing over the omega’s face like so much crap.

“You’re being gross,” Scott said bluntly, but he was laughing as he kept looking from Peter to Stiles and back.

Stiles paused like a dear caught in headlights, blinking those bambi eyes as he faced Peter with taco guts all over him. Peter didn’t buy the act for a second; underneath all the grease and salsa, Stiles smelled of mischief and joy, not embarrassment.

The omega met his eyes boldly and said unrepentantly: “Oops,” And, holding Peter’s gaze, he took a massive, snarling bite that scrunched up his nose and sprayed hot sauce and cheese half way across the table. He grinned around his mouthful, sticking his chin up defiantly, and _moaned_.

Peter fought the urge to look away and maybe gag. Instead, he reached out with his napkin and wiped a refried speck off the upturned tip of Stiles’ nose and informed him pleasantly: “Keep that up, sweetheart, and I might just have to lick you clean,”

Stiles reared back, blushing and furious.

Meanwhile, Derek threw his food down as if _Peter_ were the one ruining people’s appetites and the other alphas guffawed like they were watching a timeless comedy.

“I’ll have you know,” Stiles snapped sassily as he hurried to wipe his own damn face clean, “Just because I’m cool with werewolves doesn’t mean I’m down any filthy animal behavior,”

“Oh?” Peter interjected, letting himself sound disappointed, “I was really looking forward to sniffing your ass,”

Scott and Chris howled with laughter.

“And another thing!” If the alpha’s amusement hadn’t turned heads, Stiles’ raised voice and empathic jump out of his seat certainly did, “Sexual innuendos are, like, the most _basic_ form of humor. It’s crude. You’re crude. And it’s stupid. Stupid and basic and entirely unintelligent. And I don’t know about you, _Alpha_ Hale,” Stiles spat his title sarcastically, “but I happen to find intelligence an extremely valuable trait in a mate. If you’re trying to impress me, you should really smarten up _and_ clean up your jokes, you egotistical asshole.”

Some laughing bystander clapped as Stiles sat back down.

“What a relief,” Peter commented after Scott stopped snorting too loudly into his soda, “If a little harmless flirting was all it took to put you in your place, I might be getting bored already,”

He thought Stiles’ indignation this time was genuine, “Excuse you!? Just where exactly do you think is _my place_?”

If Stiles was looking for an argument over omega rights and the injustices of social norms, he was going to be disappointed. Not only did Peter not prescribe to the sort of prejudices Stiles was implicitly ready to throw down over, he wasn’t interested in having that kind of serious discussion at the moment. Not when he was having so much fun.

Peter blinked innocently at the omega and said: “Stiles. Dear heart. Did you, or did you not just convey that any further sexual innuendo would be inappropriate?”

Stile gaped, uncomprehendingly, “What!?”

Peter motioned between them with an earnest expression, “You have me at a disadvantage, I can’t possibly answer your question honestly _and_ without innuendo. We are in public, after all.”

Stiles scoffed as if scandalized. “Peter Hale!”

“I’m done,” Derek announced, pushing away from the picnic table.

“Woah, hold on,” Chris held out a hand to stall him. Peter noted the deliberate gape his friend kept between his palm and Derek with approval, especially as he nodded to indicate himself and said, “Cringe-worthiness aside, you have to admit he’s got a point. Doesn’t he?”

Derek frowned, following Chris’ gesture to look at Peter and Stiles. Peter was surprised to see him actually considering it. Following Chris’ lead.

For their part, Scott and Stiles seemed to innately appreciate the moment even if they had no real understanding of all the subtext involved. Neither one interrupted, but waited patiently for the handful of awkward seconds Derek took to formulate his thoughts into words.

Eventually, he turned partially back to Chris with a reluctant shrug. “I don’t know. I guess.”

Chris let him off the hook, but only enough so he could direct Derek’s attention back to Stiles with a jerk of his head and a pointed question for the other omega. “Well, Stiles?”

Stiles tilted his head and Peter adored the way his mouth moved subconsciously as he tried to figure out what Chris was getting at. Intelligence, after all, really was incredibly attractive in a mate.

“Yeah, no.” Stiles winced as his brain reached the end whatever track it was on, “I got no idea what you’re asking, dude,”

Chris took the response in stride. He easily took control of the conversation to save Derek from their flirting and simultaneously move things along to something more productive. Peter resigned himself to having precisely ‘ _that kind’_ of serious discussion after all.

“This is a good learning opportunity for you too.” Chris told him, glancing back at Derek before resettling on Stiles, “For you, specifically, given the situation, what’s more important right now? Peter’s honesty or his respect of your boundaries regarding conversation tactics?”

Stiles snorted, like he wanted to laugh at the phrasing, but he darted a glance Derek’s way decided to roll with it, with a firm: “Both. He can find something else to say that’s not specifically designed to make me uncomfortable.”

“Ah, but perhaps you forget I’m a wolf,” Peter’s smile was challenging without being predatory or sensual. He made sure Stiles saw his transparency for what it was as he continued, “I really _can_ tell I’m not making you more uncomfortable than you seem to enjoy.”

Stiles thought about that instead of blustering and getting offended on principle the way so many humans were prone to do when reminded of the lesser benefits of supernatural senses. Well what do you know, his pretty little mate was smart _and_ thoughtful.

“Nah,” Stiles shook his head slowly, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced just yet, but was well enough on the way. He verbalized the rest of his thought process. “It doesn’t matter. Or at least, it shouldn’t. Your interpretation of my chem signals might be based on years of life experience, but it’s not based on Stiles experience.”

Stiles spoke faster as his opinion solidified, and it was fascinating to watch.

“You don’t know me well enough to know for an absolute certainty that you’re reading my emotions right,” Stiles stated evenly as he directed the rest at Peter rather than the table, “and even if you did, how would you know if my mind and my body are on the same page? I might smell interested and receptive, but for all you know I could be saying no because of logical reasons that have nothing to do with my emotional state. Or I could have trauma with known triggers that I can anticipate, especially if we’re talking sexual.”

“Those are good points,” Chris agreed, looking at Peter knowingly as Derek unobtrusively resettled on the seat between them.

Peter nodded, and carried the point home, “I know plenty of omegas who refuse to have sex during heat, for all manner of reasons. Their bodies still broadcast the same biological urges and desires anyway, but doing anything about truly should be left up to the rational mind,”

“Exactly,” Stiles concurred, gracing Peter with a pleased smile. Then he picked up another taco jauntily, though with far less mess than before, “So if I ever tell you to stop making innuendos, you better do it. Simple as that.”

Scott frowned with a bemused quirk of his head, “If? I thought you just did,”

“No,” Peter denied at the same time Stiles gave a scoffed: “Nope,”

Chris chuckled, winking at Derek when the omega turned to him with a pleading expression that begged Christ to just shoot him right now.

“I don’t get it,” Scott said, doing a remarkable impression of dumb blonde stereotype even without a wig.

“If you recall,” Peter explained with forced patience, “Stiles specifically said I was being crude and stupid. He never told me to stop.”

Scott’s frown deepened, “It was pretty heavily implied. And didn’t you just admit his words should be more important than what his scent suggests?”

“Indeed,” Peter gritted out while Stiles snickered into his taco. He made a halfhearted attempt to keep the condescension at bay as he explained, “And then his words reinforced the fact that I’m doing something right. Which I fully intend to keep doing,”

Scott looked between them, at Peter’s long-suffering expression and Stiles’ complete lack of reaction as he devoured his last taco, “Wait… what?”

“Seriously?” Derek said, staring at Scott, dumbfounded.

“He. Likes. It,” Peter explained succinctly.

Stiles nodded, a single line of sauce drizzling down his chin. “I kinda do,” he admitted without a hint of shame or contrition.

And Peter decided to put it to the test, because how could he not.

He leaned close and growled, “I warned you,” right in Stiles’ ear. Then he licked the sauce off his face.

Stiles jerked back with a delightful squeak and the smell of shock and burgeoning arousal.

Peter threw a napkin at him, smirking. “Use a napkin, for God’s sake. You’re not an animal.”


	8. Eight

They ended up staying in San Diego a total of four days. Surprisingly, between Stiles’ class schedule and Scott’s commitments to the city at large, the only person they saw each and every day was Chris, and Peter thought he was rather glad of it. It made the conversation the morning of their departure far less awkward.

“Okay, let’s hear it,” Chris got them started as he joined Peter on the balcony of their hotel room.

The balcony overlooked the pool, and Derek was within easy sight as he swam laps to burn off steam before the long drive north. And also, so he’d still be satisfying his Alpha’s protective instincts while staying out of earshot. 

Peter hadn’t asked Chris for his company since the initial lunch invite. It hadn’t been necessary. They hadn’t talked, privately or otherwise, about Kate, Derek, or anything regarding the current situation Peter’s omegas were in. Not overtly.

“I want you to take Derek as your mate,”

There was no sense in beating around the bush by this point. Chris was smart enough, and he’d certainly been paying Derek attention enough. There was no way he wasn’t expecting it.

Chris slow, heavy sigh was a solid confirmation, if disappointingly underwhelming.

Peter leaned on the balcony railing and nudged him with his foot. “Spit it out. Whatever you have to say, say it,”

Chris rubbed at his beard as he stared him down.

“Christopher,” Peter growled in irritation and warning.

When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled and gave nothing away. “What does Derek want?”

Peter scoffed.

“Peter,” Chris scolded.

He whirled away from the balcony and snarled, “I don’t know, Christopher, maybe he wants to know what it’s like to be touched for once without feeling Kate all over him again,”

“Calm down,”

“Fuck you. What do you _think_ Derek wants.”

“I won’t begin to assume—”

“He wants to stay home!” Peter supplied angrily, “With me and his goddamn family, but that isn’t an option anymore. Can you help us or not,”

Chris stared at him for a long moment. The sadness in his eyes was uncomfortable as much as it was devastating.

Peter deflated and looked away, automatically seeking Derek in the pool’s crowd. “You’re saying no,”

“I’m saying… Not yet.”

“It doesn’t have to be immediately,” Peter hated how pathetic and pleading he sounded. “But soon. We only have a year, and if I can’t count on you taking him in, I need to cut that loss now and look elsewhere.”

“I know. I know,” Chris hurriedly reassured. “But he needs time—”

“We don’t have time—“

“He needs _some_ time.” Chris insisted in that infuriatingly reasonable and self-assured tone he used to use to talk Peter out of anything too rash in the months after the fire. “I’m saying yes, Peter. I am. But can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me you think Derek would let me touch him long enough to get the job done right now?”

Peter didn’t answer.

Derek had agreed to the match more easily than Peter could have dared hope for. Even so, he still shied away from Chris’ touch and even at his best moments, Derek never smelled remotely close to getting slick. Interested, yes, even hopeful on occasion, but those moments were usually ruined by unpleasant memories and even more unpleasant and explosive reactions. 

“We can tell the Council and I’ll fill out all the legal paperwork.” Chris reasoned, “Hell, we can go down to the courthouse tomorrow and get married if they want. Maybe it’ll buy us some more time to get him used to me,”

“Pointless,” Peter sneered, “Marin will probably want any marriage consummated anyway.”

“Fine,” Chris ceded, recognizing the truth in that. He hung his head in thought.

The silence while they both stewed was dragging and infuriating.

Peter watched Derek swim and thought absently that they really aught to have installed a pool when they rebuilt after the fire. After Kate. Derek was an excellent swimmer, and he seemed to really enjoy it.

“You have a pool, right?”

Chris frowned at him, then followed his eyes and the expression lifted. “I’ve been renting an apartment since Victoria passed. I think there’s a community gym, maybe.”

Silence.

Down below, Derek completed another lap and clambered out of the pool for a drink. Peter watched him warily, just making sure his omega was all good, and wondered what Chris saw. Did he even notice the impressive display of lean muscle and smooth skin as Derek walked around with those board shorts clinging everywhere?

Or did Chris just see the terrified young man he’d helped rescue too late from his own sister’s psychotic clutches.

Peter glanced over as unobtrusively as he could, breathing deep. It turned out Chris was noticing Derek.

Despite his subtlety, Chris must have sensed what he was doing. He shrugged, eyes still trained on the omega as he observed, “He sure grew up nicely. It won’t be hardship, being mated to him.”

“You say that as if you expect him to share your bed more than just the once,”

“If that’s what he wants,” Chris said it with all the weight of a heartfelt promise.

Peter had no doubt Chris would never touch Derek without full and enthusiastic consent. Regardless of the likelihood of that possibility, he found it reassuring to know that Derek would be mating someone decent who would appreciate fully if the opportunity came.

“Allison’s graduating next year. Same as Stiles,” Chris eventually said, unprompted.

“I know,”

Peter had already discussed it with Scott, and together they were working on convincing Stiles to finish his last semester online after they were mated, then travel back to San Diego for the graduation ceremony itself.

“She’s all grown up,” Christ continued. “She doesn’t need me around all the time. And San Diego’s been getting a bit too expensive for my taste anyway.”

Peter shot him a shrewd glance, “Should I find a Beacon Hills Realtor for you?”

Chris shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind if you did. Maybe I’ll stop by one when I visit,”

But of course, Chris wasn’t the next prospective alpha mate to come to Beacon Hills. Barely two weeks after Peter and Derek got back to town, Scott showed up for a long weekend and Isaac finally got his moment. More than one, in fact.

“Derek had the right idea,” Malia said conversationally as she joined her father on back porch, “I’m going to throw him through that shiny new window you just paid for,”

Peter didn’t deign to respond, but he did hide his smirk behind the cup of coffee Isaac had bribed him with to give him and Scott a little privacy. He wasn’t about to break the Council’s fully stated rules regarding traditional courting rites, so the pair were still well within sight and technically chaperoned, but they were speaking softly enough that even Peter’s Alpha hearing couldn’t tell what they were saying. It helped that Peter had decided to play some music on his phone where he’d planted himself at the kitchen window while Isaac had dragged Scott almost to the tree line bordering the property.

“I mean it,” she insisted, unsatisfied with his silence. “He’s turning Isaac into a simpering little bitch. I’m intervening before he sends him into an early heat,”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Peter reminded her, rolling his eyes, “Isaac would be impossible to live with afterwards, and you know it,”

Her petulant growl was more of an intelligible grumble than anything else.

Across the yard, they saw Scot throw his head back and laugh while Isaac blushed furiously, head ducked in coy submission. Peter had never known Isaac to flirt, shyly or otherwise, and he found it strangely off putting to watch. He considered the red creeping down the back of the omega’s neck and wondered if Malia might not have a point.

Beside him, Malia shivered and filled the air with the sharp scent of irritation. “I’ve only been on suppressants for two weeks,” she hissed quietly, glaring at Scott and Isaac accusingly, “If he goes into estrus in this house, he’ll drag me down with him.”

Peter somehow kept the smirk off his face as he told her: “It wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d gone to Deaton directly when you first presented. Or me.”

Okay. So maybe there was a little bit of vindication in his voice. It couldn’t be helped. He hadn’t paused to think about it too deeply, but they both knew, _at_ _least_ subconsciously, that she, the other omegas, and to lesser degree Cora, had let him and Laura walk into the Druid’s house ignorant and utterly unprepared. They’d been utterly blind-sided, and the Council had taken advantage. Peter couldn’t even be mad at them for it; it’s what he would have done.

He would not have done the same if he’d been in Malia’s position though. Probably. Almost definitely. Doing right by what was left of his family was the core of who he was; he couldn’t imagine keeping such a huge secret from them.

And Malia knew it. She rolled her eyes, but didn’t refute the point.

Isaac’s giddy squeal drew their attention, and Peter smiled softly as he watched Isaac whirl around with a hand to his cheek where Scott had laid a quick kiss. His eyes and mouth were open in shock, but something in his body language made Peter think he must be smelling perfectly sweet.

Sure enough, Scott’s grin was nothing short of victorious as he made a show of taking a deep breath through his nose that lifted his shoulders and puffed up his chest.

Isaac, bless his soul, certainly noticed. His face tilted down again, but there was less submission to the act than blatant appreciation as he considered the breath of Scott’s chest. The blush was back with a vengeance. His tongue peaked out to wet his lips.

Peter put his nearly empty coffee on the windowsill and moved to go join them. Peter The Cockblocker to the rescue.

“Peter,” Malia said his name in an uncharacteristic whine that was somehow both entreating and blaming. A _whine_. Malia. What was the world coming to.

“Think of it this way,” Peter threw a smirk at her over his shoulder, “If you follow him into heat, it might be a perfect opportunity to invite Deucalion over and let him ruminate on the fringe benefits of mating you,”

He winked and narrowly avoided that last inch of precious caffeine being splashed in his direction.

Isaac did not, in fact, go into an early heat. Whether this was because Scott was called back home to deal with an uppity Gremlin gang a full day early or not was immaterial. Malia breathed a sigh of relief while Isaac moped.

Then it was business as usual for a while, and Peter could almost forget the direly ticking clock hanging over their heads. Almost. Except for the fact that anything and everything mating-related kept intruding on his regular business at the least opportune moments.

Isaac was in love. It was all well and good, except Peter was getting tired of chaperoning endless phonecalls and videochats every time Isaac spied him trying to put his feet up for a damn minute. Oh, and the entire household found his wistful daydreaming and often vocal wedding and mating plans got old fast.

This was especially true of Malia. Scott’s visit had at least convinced her that mating was an inevitability and she had since taken a more proactive, if terrifyingly practical approach. She had a list of ten specific questions, and she went straight to them every time Peter locked them in his office to call the next Alpha on the list Deaton had given him. So far, there’d only been one who made it to question five.

The conversations more or less went as such:

Malia Prospect #18: Glad to hear back from you, Hale.

Peter: Evening, Alpha Raeken. May I introduce you to—

Malia: Malia Hale. How old are you?

#18:… twenty-five. Why?

Malia: So you’re just starting out, right? You’re still building a pack.

#18: Well, yeah. That’s sort of the point of all this.

Malia: I don’t breed. Is that going to be a problem?

#18: Wow. No. Definitely not, I hate kids.

Malia: I don’t clean either, alright?

#18: … Honestly? I was raised in a traditional pack and I always figured my omega would cover that base for me. But if it’s a real deal breaker, I suppose we could hire a maid or something…

Malia: A cook too.

#18: Let me guess, you don’t cook either.

Malia: Problem?

#18: Disappointing, but I’ll manage. What would you--

Malia: Would you expect my absolute and immediate submission?

#18: …What?

Malia: Typical omega submission, dumbass. In or out of bed. Is that something you need from your mate?

#18: Haha. Sounds like we’d have a lot of fun together. But sometimes, yeah—

Malia hung up on him at that point.

Peter was actively trying to get his hands on her list of interview questions, with no success so far. Not only were he and Laura both dying of curiosity, but it’d be nice to know what Malia was looking for so pragmatic and ruthlessly. If the conversation with Raeken had been any indication, Peter was becoming more and more convinced Deucalion was passing up a golden opportunity.

Unfortunately, Malia and her peculiarities were not the least of his concerns.

Derek could no longer tolerate the other omegas in the house. He kept looking at Malia with every sign of hurt and irritation known to wolf or man, and Peter could only guess that he felt betrayed by her relatively easy acceptance and forthright approach to the situation. Around Isaac he tended to sink into sullen silences that would inevitably fill the room with the sent of sorrow and self-hatred the moment Isaac so much as thought Scott’s name. As a result, Derek was spending virtually all of his time either in his room, running himself to exhaustion in the woods, or diligently working at the local mechanic’s shop.

Peter would have been significantly more worried about Derek if it weren’t for Chris. At the human alpha’s suggestion, Peter had started facilitating video chats for the two of them every night at nine o’clock. More often than not, those calls consisted of Chris talking while Derek listened and stared at him moodily through the camera on Peter’s lap top, the omega responded in monosyllables or grunts if at all; afterword, Peter was always careful to assure Chris that Derek had seemed relaxed and attentive, sometimes even content.

And then Chris got busy helping Allison move into her new apartment and missed a phone call.

“Hey, Peter?” Laura poked her head into his office, a flummoxed and mildly concerned expression on her face.

“What, Laura.”

Despite his short tone, he was happy for the interruption. He set down the official looking letter he’d been slowly picking his way through, trying to make sense of the tiny, flamboyant script and the outdated language. Nephilim were notoriously pretentious creatures to begin with, and they never seemed to pass up the opportunity to give him a headache with unnecessarily convoluted documents. Far as he could tell, this one was merely notifying the pack that he had lawful purposes for being on their land in the coming months, _if it would not offend_.

“Is there a particular reason why Derek’s so diligently sharpening his claws on an innocent tree stump?”

Peter frowned. “Come again?”

“Derek,” she jerked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the backyard view through his window.

Peter leaned on his desk, but he couldn’t see any hint of Derek. It was nearly 11 o’clock in the evening and overcast though, and even wolf vision had its limits.

“He’s down by the firewood copse,” she explained. “Boyd and I saw him on our way back from town. He’s just sitting out there tearing into the wood, looking particularly miserable. Any ideas why?”

Peter sighed and considered the annoying letter again. Eh. It could wait.

The small area where they’d started turning the sickly trees into kindling wasn’t far off, and it sat just off the dirt road that widened into their driveway an additional couple hundred yards later. By the time Peter was near enough to hear the splintering of wood and the snitch of claws, the sounds of the house were distant enough to be ignored.

The anger and worry coming off Derek in waves was not as easy to ignore.

“Want to talk about it?” Peter said in leu of greeting as he sat on another stump about three feet from his nephew.

Derek had tensed, those broad shoulders hunching over when he heard Peter coming. When the alpha spoke, his glare only intensified as he yanked his claws from the jagged mess of wood with a shockingly loud crackle.

“You’re going to get splinters under your nails if you keep that up,”

Derek looked up at him, his stare frigid, and stabbed his claws back into the tree’s remains.

Peter raised a brow. “Oh? You’re mad at me for some reason, are you?”

Derek turned his gaze back to his handwork.

“If this is about Chris canceling tonight’s call,” Peter sighed, “it couldn’t be helped. He was half asleep when he called to warn me he was beat and had to turn in early.”

The omega didn’t move, didn’t speak or truly react. His scent did a complicated sort of race through a myriad of emotions as he slowly shifted his claws, one at a time, through the wood shards. Peter wasn’t about to try to untangle it.

Peter sighed again—he was doing that a lot around Derek lately, he noticed—and tugged his phone from his jean’s pocket. “If I let you call and leave him a message, will you actually say something?”

Derek went perfectly still, almost petrified. His scent and emotional state were still too wild for Peter to read.

Peter tossed the phone lightly in his palm. “Well?”

Derek’s back straightened and he held out his hand expectantly.

Peter pulled up Chris’ contact info and dialed. Then he threw the device the few feet between them.

Derek caught it seamlessly and not so smoothly brought it up to his face. His expression looked wary, as if he half-expected the phone to bite him.

It was a quiet enough night. Peter didn’t have a problem hearing when the call connected, but not with the voicemail inbox he’d expected.

“Hello?” Chris’ groggy voice answered in Derek’s ear.

Even in the dark, Peter could see Derek’s panicked expression and his ears turning red. He said nothing.

“Peter?” Chris’ voice was rough with sleep, slurring just the slightest bit even as a hint of something dark and dangerous started to sneak into it as he said: “What’s wrong? Is Derek alright?”

“I’m… fine.” Derek murmured awkwardly.

“Derek?” Chris was more alert now and definitely surprised by the sound of it. “You’re really okay, sweatheart?”

“…Yeah…”

Peter heard Chris take a loud breath, his next words imbued with so much unassuming patience: “Good. That’s good. Is Peter with you?”

This, at least, was an easy one. “Yes,”

“Good, just had to make sure.” There was the rustle of cloth and Chris gave a muffled groan before all the sound settled again. “What’s on your mind, Derek?”

Derek’s wide eyes jotted around, from one stump to another, as if hunting for immediate inspiration. That cocktail of a scent smoothed into a mild but distinct panic.

“Calm down, pup,” Peter whispered.

Chris didn’t have a wolf’s ears, but his mind was as sharp at least, even half asleep. “I’m not much good for conversation right now,” he said, as calm as ever but with a touch of command he didn’t usually use when addressing Derek, “How about you tell me why you’re calling me in the middle of the night, omega.”

Inexplicably, this seemed to be exactly what Derek needed to hear. His whole body eased a bit, shoulders relaxing and eyelids drooping just a bit. His claws fully retracted, even the ones still embedded in the tree stump. He craned his neck, just a little stretch, and it looked remarkably close to baring his throat.

Peter’s breath caught. Derek never showed his throat to alphas, not even to Peter. Not since Kate.

“Tell me,” Chris grumbled, low and sleep-gruff and brokering no argument.

And Derek… did.

“I missed it. Talking with you.”

Utter silence came from the phone. Peter thought his own heart might have stopped thumping a beat.

“I miss you too,” Chris whispered, and his voice was pure pleasure and warm pride.

“I think…” Derek stalled. His eyes met Peter’s with a pleading, guilty look.

Peter tried to let his pride and eagerness seep into his pores, to exude all the encouragement he possible could. He waved Derek on with a grin and a wink.

Derek held Peter’s gaze desperately, his scent blooming with dismay and fear and something terribly like _want_ , as he admitted: “I might be ready for you to visit. Maybe.”


	9. Nine

A week later, nearly two months after Marin had come to town to unsettled his pack, and Peter was finally starting to feel like he had the omega situation under control.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind, Peter Hale,”

Oh yes. So well controlled was the situation, in fact, that he was finally having a laid back, dare he say _lazy_ , purely enjoyable Sunday.

“You know what I should do? I’ll tell you what I should do. I should come up there, hack off those apparently ginormous balls of yours, get them molded and encased in silicon and plastic, and then shove them up _your_ ass for a change, you sick fuck.”

So enjoyable. He had to keep a finger of the hand not holding his phone to his ear on his mouth to keep his laughter contained. It would not due to let Stiles know just how much Peter enjoyed their little chats. Not yet, anyway.

“Oh my God, Stiles! You can’t just say stuff like that—” he could hear Scott moaning in the background.

“Fuck off, Scott. This is between me and Peter—”

“Stiles,” Peter interrupted at this point in his smoothest, most innocent tone, “Darling, really, I had no idea you’ve been considering my _ginormous_ assets so seriously. How scandalous of you,”

Stiles sputtered. “Excuse you!? Scandalous of _me_?! You had a limited-edition _knotting dildo_ delivered to my Pack Alpha as a courting gift. You know how Scott gets about me and butt stuff, Peter! That was not nice.”

“Please tell me he opened it in front of you,” Peter asked, not bothering to keep the grin off his face.

Stiles’ righteous indignation slipped for the sake of genuine disappointment. “No. Apparently the asshole thinks his role in this is to screen all of my mail upon delivery now. I was in class when it got here and I completely missed it.”

Peter tisked sympathetically, “Poor baby,”

At the same time, Scott was grumbling in the background “It is my role, Stiles. You want to mate with a wolf, you gotta play by wolf rules—”

“You can tell Scott,” Peter said conversationally, “that he needn’t worry; this wolf has plenty of rules for you, just you wait, omega,”

“Oh my GAWD,” Stiles squealed, and Peter cackled at the obnoxious flare of breathless excitement in the sound purely meant for Scott’s benefit. “Yes, please! But no, really, on a serious and admittedly related note: thanks for the toy. It gives me… _ideas_.”

Peter paused. So much of his interaction to date with Stiles had been over the phone, occasionally video, and it had been an inconvenient lesson in realizing how often he truly relied on his wolf senses to read people. Stiles was difficult to anticipate on the best days, even the few opportunities they’d met in person.

And yes, Peter really had ordered the dildo as a strategic play to entertain Stiles’ sense of humor via Scott’s prudishness. He hadn’t expected…. Well. Anything beside a good hard laugh out of the omega.

His stunned silence must have lasted too long and given the game away.

“I’m not even being cute—I mean, yeah, impossible for me not to be, I mean duh: omega here. But for real,” Stiles’ voice dropped just the smallest bit and turned warm in that way Peter already knew would coincide with the wonderful aroma of sweetness and slick. “Thank you, alpha,”

Peter might have been suspicious that Stiles was having him on, except Scott was making a pained, muffled sound in the background. Peter knew that sound. It was the sound Scott made when Stiles was “stinking up the place” with nothing more than his imagination and his god-given lubrication.

Damn, but this omega was being serious.

Peter double checked that the door to his sound proofed office was firmly shut, then leaned back and purred: “You’re very welcome, sweetheart,”

Scott gagged, but it didn’t matter because Stiles sounded just that little bit more affected as he said: “I don’t know if I’ll be able to use it any time soon. I may be human, but I’m still…” Stiles paused, and even Scott had gone quiet.

“I don’t mind that you’re human,” Peter assured, “I’m actually rather looking forward to it. You’ll wear my marks beautifully,”

Stiles took a sharp inhale, “Yeah,” he said, breathless, “I bruise like a peach,”

“I’ll be careful—”

“I’m still here, guys!” Scott yelled. He wasn’t next to the phone, but Peter had to pull the phone from his ear, wincing, just the same.

“Thanks a lot, Scotty. Maybe I wanted to hear that, huh?”

“We’ll have time for that later, sweet boy,” Peter reminded them both. Course, unlike Stiles, he was enjoying his privacy; Peter casually slipped a hand between his legs and gave himself just a little pressure. Just enough to help him through the rest of conversation.

“As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted,” Stiles said angrily, then he took a bracing breath and rushed on: “I know wolves can get pretty territorial about their omegas, and that doesn’t always line up with human notions like virginity being a social construct—”

Peter opened his mouth to assure Stiles that he didn’t mind if Stiles had a whole string of lovers behind him, so long as they weren’t a present or future diversion. “Stiles, I—”

“I’m a virgin,” Stiles blurted out.

“… Oh.”

Truly, Peter had been bracing himself for the probability of having his wolf go crazy upon their mating when his animal instincts were forced to reconcile the evidence that someone else had laid claim to his mate before him. It was a common and well-established hurdle among cross-species couples. Peter had known and accepted it.

Apparently, he’d wasted his time.

His erection throbbed with monumentally increased interest and every reasonable, well intended thought and mental preparation went out the window. His baser instincts surged and Peter damn nearly humped his own hand, he was so caught up in the idea of laying absolute and sole claim to his mate’s perfect, tight body.

“Oh!?” Stiles mocked him. “I tell you I’m still a virgin and all you have to say is ‘Oh’—”

“I have plenty more to say about it, Stiles,” Peter said seriously, “And Scott McCall’s ears are worthy of hearing none of it.”

For once, it seemed he’d struck Stiles speechless. Peter gave his clothed cock a squeeze and felt his pulse there, heartbeat pounding once, twice, three times, and still the omega didn’t speak.

“Don’t use the toy,” he growled, more forcefully than he’d ever spoken to any omega before in his`life. “Understand?”

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered, all breathless anticipation and eager submission. 

“Give the phone to Scott and go take care of yourself,”

The phone made a dull clatter as Stiles fumbled to do as he was told. He was such a delightful, perfect omega where it counted. Peter couldn’t wait to get him in his bed.

Scott came to the phone with a put-upon groan. “Was that really necessary? The sex toy was bad enough, but damn.”

“Were you serious about bringing him out here for winter break?” Never let it be said that Peter didn’t know how to prioritize.

Scott sighed, but dropped his point. “Yeah. I’d like more time with Isaac, and you and Stiles deserve a chance to get to know each other better. Though now I’m wondering if that’s such a bright idea, if you guys can’t keep it in your pants. The Council doesn’t have a place in their regime for conjugal visits, remember.”

Peter did remember, and what a pity it was. But it was a necessary evil that they play by the rules, and Peter wasn’t stupid enough to risk bending them, no matter how blue his balls got in the process.

So Peter didn’t argue, instead he simply informed Scott: “If he wants to come, he needs to start taking suppressants. As of yesterday.”

Scott made a soft, startled noise, “Uh… yeah… we can look into that. But he’s not gonna be happy about it,”

“Then he doesn’t get to come visit,” Peter grumbled unhappily. “My instincts already recognize him as my mate, Scott. If he comes onto my territory smelling the way he does at the drop of a hat, he’s going to end up claimed sooner than any of us are ready for. I shouldn’t need to explain this to you,”

“I know, I know,” Scott rushed to assure him, “I get it, seriously I do. I would be in the same boat if Isaac came to my house and started leaking slick everywhere. And I’m well aware of how easily Stiles gets worked up. _Trust me_ , I know,”

“Then help him get it under control,” Peter couldn’t help the unhappy rumble to his voice; he hated having to be the voice of reason when all he really wanted was to be monumentally irresponsible by rolling around in Stiles’ unfettered, oh-so-sweet musk. Preferably, he’d like to be bathing in directly from the source. 

Unfortunately, Stiles needed to finish the semester in San Diego if he wanted to graduate on time. At least his remaining classes could be done online after that, though. Maybe, just maybe, he could be bedding this omega by the time Spring Break rolled around.

Not much sooner, though.

“Look,” Scott huffed, “last time his dad and I tried to get him on suppressants, there were issues. Like, interactions with his ADHD meds. And he needs those to get through his school work. You have no idea how intense it gets to finish a BAS with a major in Arcane Studies—“

“I have a perfectly healthy appreciation for the subject, Scott. That has nothing to do with werewolf mating instincts, and you know it.”

“I know! I’m just saying… If you have to issue ultimatums, be prepared to be dissatisfied,”

And damn it all, but Scott was right. Peter already knew he couldn’t reasonably ask Stiles to let his schoolwork suffer just for some help controlling themselves during the week he’d be visiting while school was on break.

“You know your limits, and I don’t fault you for it,” Scott reasoned, “But I know Stiles.”

“Fine. But he can’t stay here at the house. My control’s good, but no wolf’s is that good,”

“Fair enough. It’s probably for the best that I not stay under the same roof as Isaac anyway.”

“I wasn’t sure if you realized how close he’d been to triggering estrus when you were here last,”

Scot gave a low, dark chuckle that put paid to that impression instantly. “How is my omega, by the way?”

“He’s not your anything just yet,” Peter retorted good naturedly. “But he’s fine. Possibly a little lovesick, but fine.”

“Good,” The humor faded from his voice a little, “And your other omega? Derek?”

Peter hummed noncommittally.

“Alison told me Chris was going to move north so he could take care of him for you.”

Peter sighed. He might as well set the record straight. “That might be a gross oversimplification, at best. Chris is going to take Derek as his mate, but it’s less for my sake than for themselves.”

“That’s fair,” Scott acknowledged, “Alison didn’t get into details or anything, but I know she feels bad about the history between you guys. I think maybe this mating could be a good thing for everybody. Help mend bridges or whatever.”

“Perhaps,”

Peter wasn’t about to explain to this pup of an Alpha how the only people left alive to mend anything with was a list that began and ended with Derek. He wasn’t interested in fueling that particular gossip fire, regardless of how well intended Scott or Alison might be.

Like the angel she was, Laura chose that exact moment to burst into his office, a manic grin on her face.

“I suppose I will see you next week,” Peter told Scott dismissively, “Duty calls, Scott.”

“See you soon,”

Peter dropped his phone on his desk and looked at Laura expectantly. The dear woman-child was practically bouncing on her heels in excitement.

“Deaton may be a druid jerk-nugget, but damn, can he work some magic,”

“He _is_ magic,” he reminded her snidely.

She blew him off with a puff of air and roll of her eyes. “The point is: he came through for us. Guess who’s on a direct flight to Beacon Hills tomorrow morning!?”

“I can’t possibly handle the suspense, Laura,” Peter deadpanned.

“Deucalion!” she sang, with a little shimmy of a dance included for effect.

Peter stared, doubtful.

Her grin widened. “Really. Like, for real. Marin’s picking him at the airport at ten,”

Peter wasn’t about to get his hopes up just yet. Elbows on his desk, he pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth and narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. Slowly, he said: “I have questions. Many of them.”

“I know, right!?” Laura’s laughter was nothing short of victorious.

Peter, however, knew better and remained cautiously optimistic. “How,” he prompted shortly.

“I might have mentioned to Deaton why I thought Deucalion and Malia could do well together, and when I asked, he said he’d look into why dear old Duke hasn’t mated _or_ rebuilt his pack yet.”

The sparkle in her eye was nothing short of devious. It hit Peter then that Laura, for all her bubbly charm, could be terrifyingly efficient. She had intentionally pointed a Council member in the direction of another Pack Alpha whose situation might highlight their inconsistent and supposedly unbiased meddling among wolf matings. 

“Also,” Laura continued in that sing-song fashion, blinking wide eyes innocently, “he might have told me how Duke and Marin used to have a thing, back in the day, but it ended badly. And now we’re all wondering if maybe she’s been roadblocking him from rebuilding his pack out of spite.”

Peter arched an eyebrow quizzically.

She raised one shoulder in an unconcerned half-shrug, “You gotta admit. It is pretty fishy. There’s probably even some truth to it somewhere.”

Peter took a moment to absorb everything.

This was his Second. His heir and beloved niece. And here she was, blackmailing the Council and, at best, blatantly manipulating a friend they hoped to soon call family.

Peter leaned across the desk on his forearms and beckoned her close. Grinning, Laura leaned her palms on the opposing side of the desk and dropped her head to the level of his own. He gripped her chin and brought her close, their faces inches apart, eyes locked and serious.

“I have _never_ ,” he whispered to her meaningfully, “been so proud of you,”

It wasn’t just a good, lazy Sunday, after all. It was a _great_ Sunday.


	10. Ten

The holidays brought a royal mess of omega nerves crashing down on the Hale pack that year. Peter had never been more amused and stressed in his life, and it was bound to give him a serious case of emotional whiplash.

It started with Deucalion.

Marin led him into their home with a steadying hand on his arm, his walking stick tucked beneath the other. Laura smoothly took over from there, successfully hip-checking the druid back out the door in the process. It was marvelous, and flawlessly executed, and Peter didn’t even need to interact with Marin.

The first sign of trouble came after that though.

Deucalion extended the walking stick, jabbing the point into Laura’s thigh hard enough to drop her for a second. “Pardon me,” he said unapologetically, smoothly flourishing the stick out in front of him like it was meant for.

Laura’s eyes flashed red, and if Deucalion could feel the intensity of her glare, he didn’t seem to be bothered by it.

“Please, Peter,” he said in that bored, quintessentially British tone of his, “Let’s not stand on ceremony. Yes, I will take a cup of tea, and indeed, the flight was perfectly dreadful and smell like stale cheese and unwashed humans. Do introduce me to your spawn now, so we can all move on with our lives.”

“Always a pleasure, Duke,” Peter replied, “Thank you for reminding me how much I’ve missed your company.”

“Save your sweet nothings for the poor omega you’ll have to con into your bed, Peter.”

“So sassy,” Peter stage whispered to Laura.

“The girl, Peter,” he grumbled impatiently as he and his stick tapped their way over to the couch. “Amelia. Where is she?”

“Malia,” Peter and Laura corrected in unison.

“I’ll remember her name if she proves worth remembering,” Deucalion assured. “So far, I’ve caught the scent of three different omegas, and each of them seems as pleasant and uninspired as another. You’re so convinced one of them has something special to offer, then very well. Convince me.”

Laura had dug out her phone and started typing while he spoke. She flashed her phone at Peter, letting him see the unsent text: _Im gonna punch him. Dont care hes blind._

Peter smirked and patted the top of her head adoringly. Then he sat down beside Deucalion, brushing their shoulders as he said: “Oh, I’m sure Malia’s up to the challenge. She’s around her somewhere,” then he shouted: “Malia!?”

Deucalion jerked, one hand going up to rub at his ringing ear.

Peter gave Laura a satisfied wink. “Would you mind getting our guest that cup of tea, Laura? Hold the spit,”

Laura laughed, but disappeared into the kitchen.

Truly, it hadn’t been necessary to shout for Malia beyond retribution for Laura’s sore leg. The omega was the only other pack member currently at home, the only non-alpha who hadn’t followed Derek into the woods for a lengthy run. She’d certainly wanted to, of course, but that would have defeated the purpose of the rest of them giving her some space to meet a potential suitor.

Deucalion was, for various reasons, the only alpha so far to be given the chance to meet Malia face-to-face. Malia was furious about it, as was expected. She was also nervous and antsy, which was decidedly not what anyone had expected. Last night, Peter had warned her that Duke was blind, but when she came downstairs she appeared to have forgotten that little tidbit.

Peter did a double take, and he must had smelt surprised, perhaps his breath hitched, because Duke straightened beside him and tilted his head in consideration.

Malia was wearing her typical jeans and loose sweater, nothing special, but she’d brushed her hair to an uncommon shine and smoothness. Her lips were bitten pink and plump, and beneath the open sweater she wore a tank top she must have stollen from Cora’s closet, it was so form-fitting and low-cut (for her taste). Even with the sweater, her scent glands were fully accessible in a way that was intentional and entirely unlike Malia.

“So you’re her,” Deucalion said, head tilted in her general direction. He didn’t sound particularly impressed, even as Peter saw him take a second, deep breath of her scent.

“Malia,” she said leaning against the door frame and making no sign to get any closer. Peter was reassured to see her crossing her arms defensively and narrowing her eyes as she surveyed the new alpha. Then, proving she could give as good as she got, she said, “So you’re the blind guy. Douche-something, right?”

In the kitchen, Laura gave a bark of laughter.

For his part, Peter contained himself to a snort of amusement. “Deucalion, Malia.”

“Same difference, from what I hear,”

“Ah,” Deucalion’s lips twitched in a condescending expression of understanding, “And you often go about parroting the opinions of others, do you?”

“Only opinions I trust,” she answered seriously, “They tend to be as good a starting point as any for figuring out my own,”

Behind his sunglasses, Duke’s brow lifted, but his scent remained entirely neutral. “Indeed,”

He made the mistake of not filling the airspace with something worthwhile. As a result, Malia went straight for the throat.

“So why don’t you have a pack?”

Peter was attentively waiting for it, that was the only way he was able to catch the hint of incredulity that leaked into Duke’s scent.

“I beg your pardon, young lady,”

“I’m not a lady. And you’re deflecting. You had one of the strongest packs in Southern California for years before you lost your sight, and you’ve still got the territory without the numbers to realistically maintain it. What gives,”

“My. Someone’s been doing their research,”

“Yeah. It’s the rest of my life we’re dealing with here, so it’s kind of a big deal.”

Deucalion’s pasture shifted subtly and Peter wanted to cheer. He had the distinct impression that Malia had just earned a little begrudging respect, and, if nothing else, the blind alpha was at least taking her seriously. It was honestly more than Peter had dared hope for so soon.

“Physical might is merely one component to a wolf’s worth,” Duke explained in measured, thoroughly thought out words, “The Council has long since recognized the value of my experience as well as my mental capacities. In short, leaving me to my own devices, even as a lone wolf with an official territory, is an acceptable price for my friendship and cooperation. I find the politics involved an equally acceptable price on my end.”

Malia frowned, and the pervasive scent of disappointment started to leak off her. “SO you don’t want a pack,”

He stiffened, “I’ll thank you not to put words in my mouth,”

Malia relaxed a little, though her frown remained in place. She uncrossed her arms and instead hooked her thumbs through her front belt loops, hips tilting forward comfortably.

“I am merely particular in my standards for packmates.” Deucalion paused, then seemed to reach a decision before admitted with impressive bravado: “And there are not many who meet those standards who look favorably on an Alpha with such an obvious… imperfection.” It was clear by the way he said it, Duke struggled to find an appropriate word to encompasses his disability without putting himself down for it.

Malia didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she didn’t care. She moved on to the second question from her list.

“Do you want kids?”

Deucalion actually recoiled. “Heavens, no.”

“So let’s say we mated,” she pushed off the doorframe, taking a single step into the room, “Would I have to do all the cleaning because I’m omega?”

Deucalion frowned and Peter could suddenly pick up on his emotional state exactly: pure confusion.

“Of course not,”

“But you’d want me to cook?”

If nothing else, Deucalion clearly found the current topic so inconceivable that he answered honestly and without attempting to work an angle. “You do realize, I am a long-term Pack Leader with a disability by both human and supernatural laws, with significant connections to The Council on top of that. I already pay people to do such menial tasks. Why on earth would that change if I were to mate.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Good,” Malia said succinctly, and moved on before the poor bastard could get his bearings. “Then would you automatically expect my submission ever, because I’m omega?”

Peter grinned and sat back, one arm over the back of the couch. He could practically see the cogs working in Duke’s brain, trying to catch up. Malia, bless her, may have been the more nervous one, but she was far more prepared for this confrontation.

To be fair, the alpha in question was rolling with the punches fairly well. “Are we speaking… generally?”

“And sexually. Both.”

“Ah.”

“Well?”

“I cannot imagine so. I do not generally deal with omegas for good reason,” He didn’t sound quite as confident as he had with his previous answers though.

 _Oh, Malia, my darling pup,_ Peter thought vindictively as he watched Duke’s face twist in ever growing perplexation. She had him on the ropes, that was for sure.

And then Deucalion from Los Angeles surpassed every other suitor by finally unlocking question number six on Malia’s list.

“Well I’m pretty sure I’ll want to be on top at least sometimes. Is that a problem?”

Peter choked.

Something shattered in the hallway, a ceramic mug probably, and Laura cursed as she scampered back to the kitchen.

And Deucalion sat there on the couch. Stunned.

“Would that be a problem?” Malia repeated, as if she were speaking to a remarkably thick child.

Peter didn’t know what to say, what to do. He was at once very aware like never before that this was not merely a business arrangement, but a direct affect on his only child’s sex life. He was still trying to figure out his own reaction to hearing Malia ask that question when the alpha beside him managed to get over it faster.

Eventually, Deucalion said with blessed brevity, “Not at all,”

Malia nodded and moved on.

“Would I get a say in who and when we accepted anyone into our pack?”

Deucalion leaned forward and his face smoothed out as he apparently decided to entertain the idea of actually mating with this girl. “Indeed, I’m sure that would be utterly necessary,”

“Can I make pack decrees at my own discretion?”

There was a tense silence as Deucalion pondered that one for a while. Eventually, he said evenly: “That would a much longer and ever-evolving conversation, I think.”

Malia paused, brow furrowed in a way that strongly highlighted her resemblance to Derek. Whatever answers she had been expecting to that particular question, Duke’s hadn’t been one of them. Eventually, her expression cleared and she shrugged.

“Would you expect sex out of heat?”

And Peter was back to feeling awkward.

Deucalion, strangely enough, seemed to finally be catching his stride within the baffling conversation. His reply was utterly nonchalant, “I might hope, but I’ll certainly not expect it.”

Wonder of all wonders, Malia smiled. Well, maybe it was more a smirk. “That’s cool. Last question—”

“Oh, I do hope it’s not disappointing,” Deucalion snarked, expression carefully neutral. Good God, was he _teasing_? 

“Can I bite you back during the mating?”

“Fuck’s sake, Malia,” Peter muttered under his breath.

At the same time, Laura cackled from elsewhere in the house. She choked on it when she heard Duke’s reply.

“That sounds… ideal.”

Deucalion left ten minutes later to catch his same-day return flight to LA, and not a single one of them were sure what the hell had just happened.

They were still reeling from the encounter when Chris showed up on their doorstep Christmas Eve. Only Peter and Laura had known he was coming, though Chris had taken to promising Derek that he would be there to visit “soon” every night since Derek had suggested it.

For a terrible moment when Chris first stepped inside, Peter thought they’d made a huge mistake. Derek froze up, panic and alarm overwhelming any pleasure he might have experienced at the surprise. Thankfully, Chris hadn’t been offended when Derek had turn tail and run away to his bedroom. He merely accepted a glass of eggnog from Boyd and then joined Isaac, Cora and Erica in stringing popcorn over the Christmas tree.

Peter left them to it while he trekked upstairs to check on Derek. Surprisingly, he didn’t need to even knock on the bedroom door. His stepped off the top stair and Derek threw his door open.

The cloud of anxiety and hope emitting from the room hit Peter like an actual slap in the face.

Peter paused just outside the doorway. The rest of the pack was downstairs, listening to Christmas music and having a carefree time. They had no need for the soundproofing barrier of a closed bedroom door, and Peter didn’t feel like encouraging Derek’s social issues at the moment. Not when he was trying to get the omega to join the fun and have some quality time with Chris while he was here for a few days.

“Alright, pup. What’s going through that head of yours,” Peter prompted, hands in his pockets unobtrusively as he kept himself pointedly outside of Derek’s room.

Derek had retreated to the back corner after throwing the door open for him. He stood between his closet and his bed awkwardly, hands clenching in fists and releasing on a loop like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Peter…?” Derek’s voice was soft and imploring, so unsure. “I’m not… I wasn’t ready…”

Peter sighed, “You are though. Stop second guessing and go with what your instincts tell you. You literally told Chris to come see you, remember.”

“No, that’s not…” Derek huffed and ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it. Then his arms dropped like the strings had been cut and the lost expression on his face was heartbreaking. “I haven’t even showered today, Peter!”

Peter frowned. He honestly hadn’t expected that to matter to Derek. Maybe if it were Isaac…. Oh. Peter peered into the room with a different approach, noting the open closet and the clothes strewn all over Derek’s perfectly made bed and otherwise orderly room. Oh.

Shifting mental gears without pausing to analyze just yet, Peter clapped his hands decisively and entered the room. “Go shower. I’ll find the turtleneck Laura bought you last year, it really brings out your eyes.”

Derek hugged him. It only lasted a second, there and gone, but it happened. Then Derek was running down the hall and slamming the bathroom door behind him.

“Fuck me,” Peter breathed, chest tight.

He couldn’t remember the last time Derek had hugged him. It was yet another example of evidence supporting the Council’s claims that mating was a necessary step that his pack’s omegas needed to thrive. Like Isaac’s immediate admission that he desperately wanted babies, and the mate and white picket fence that could go with that vision. Like Malia’s methodical and so clearly defined expectations for her future, which she’d thrown together so impossibly quickly, hadn’t she. And now Derek was hugging him like he hadn’t since he was whole and young and so wonderfully naïve to so many things.

They were ready for this, Peter realized. Even Derek. They needed this, to grow and be satisfied and possibly, hopefully, happy. Maybe it was Peter who wasn’t ready.

Peter quietly laid out the turtleneck and dark jeans on Derek’s bed, throwing everything else back into the closet. Then he stole away to his office and seriously considered drowning his epiphany in wolfsbane laced whiskey so he could put off the emotional rollercoaster long enough to chaperone Derek and Chris.

Naturally, that was the moment his phone started ringing. Like the desperate asshole he was, Peter answered it even though he didn’t recognize the number.

“Alpha Hale speaking,”

“Peter?”

Well, look at that, hello welcome distraction. “Hello, sweetheart. You have truly impeccable timing.”

“… Is everything alright?” Stiles asked, and the total lack of anything teasing or robust was disconcerting. In fact, Stiles sounded soft and concerned.

“Everything’s just fine,” he lied, and carefully poured himself an inch of whiskey. “Merry Christmas, Stiles, and you too, Sco—”

Peter froze, realizing belatedly that he couldn’t hear any other heartbeat besides Stiles’ over the phone.

“Right,” Stiles said awkwardly, knowing he’d been found out, “So funny story, actually—”

“Stiles,” Peter snapped, setting down the whisky dispenser with a resounding smack. “You can’t be calling me like this. How the hell did you even get my number,”

“Yeah, see that’s the funny story part, I was just getting to—”

“Nevermind. Go find Scott and call me back on his phone. Lose my number, Stiles. I mean it.”

“But—”

“Now, Stiles.”

Peter hung up.

He downed his shot and considered pouring a second, his heart pounding. Anger took over, undoubtedly turning his eyes red, and before he could reign it in, he threw the glass across the room. It hit the wall and shattered. The destruction didn’t make him feel better, just irritated him with further dissatisfaction.

How could Stiles be so careless, so, so… stupid!? If the Council found out they were in contact outside of prescribed channels, that could be the inch of rope someone like Marin could use to hang Peter with. It didn’t help that the bitch had, in all likelihood, been right when she called Peter out for letting his pack down in recent years.

Derek, Isaac, even Malia had been struggling who knew how long, and here Peter was, actually trying bag himself another omega who didn’t need him. What was he _doing_ …

His phone rang. Scott’s number flashed across the screen.

Peter forced himself to take a deep breath. Then another. And another. The phone stopped ringing.

There was no way Stiles didn’t know what he’d just risked. Peter had been more than transparent about his situation, and the foolish boy fancied himself an emissary, for crying out loud.

There was a tentative knock on his door at the same moment his phone started ringing again.

“Fuck!” Peter yelled, just to get it out.

Then he muted his phone and cracked the door open with it still in his hand.

Derek stood there, looking fresh and handsome as ever. “Are you coming down?” he asked, brows rising in alarm as he picked up on whatever chem signals Peter was pumping out.

Peter looked down at his phone. He considered what he must smell like to Derek right now, how he’d come in here to calm down before subjected the rest of the pack and Chris to himself.

“Can you give me ten more minutes?”

Derek nodded. Peter saw him lean against the hall wall opposite his office to wait as he closed the door.

Peter’s phone showed two missed calls from Scott’s phone. As he looked at the message, a third call came in. This time, he answered.

“Hello, asshole,” Stiles began.

“Let me speak to Scott,”

“No.” Stiles’ snarl did a fair impression of a wolf, “He’s here, you can hear his heartbeat I’m sure,”

This was true. Peter could.

“He’s watching me like a hawk and listening to a podcast on his headphones,” Stiles explained, sounding absolutely pissed. “Now are you going to let me talk, you colossal fuckweasel?”

Peter had opened his mouth to shout back at Stiles, but he found the anger stuttering out under the inexplicable bewilderment of being called a _fuckweasel_ for the first time in his life. While he tried to collect his derailed thoughts, Stiles took advantage.

“Let’s get something straight, Peter. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. That means I’m not just your mate, I’m your emissary and your goddamn partner. So stop being a condescending bag of dicks and listen to me when I’m trying to talk to you, got it?”

Peter was too raw at the moment for that kind of verbal attack. He growled, low and dangerous. “You want to be my equal, omega? Then start acting like it.”

“I’m trying, you egotistical—”

“You could have gotten my pack dismantled, Stiles. Do you realize that? Did you stop for one second to—”

“I _would have_ ,” Stiles griped emphatically, “if I’d known who the fuck I was calling. Jesus Christ, Peter. You actually think I would risk you like that?”

The pure hurt and dismay in his voice brought Peter to a jarring halt.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stiles.” He repeated his earlier question, but with less anger and more exhausted heartache than he would willingly admit, “How did you get my number?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles sounded like he was pouting, but not in the endearingly playful way, in the miserable and upset way. “One moment I was beating Liam in our annual Christmas Eve Mario Cart tournament, and the next I was going for a walk to clear my head and make a phone call. I didn’t realize I was dialing a number I didn’t even know until I heard your voice.”

Peter sighed, and as the breath left him it took the last of his anger and fear and what felt like every bit of emotional energy he had left. “Okay, sweetheart. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I swear, Peter. If I’d realized it was your number, I wouldn’t have called. I just felt like something was up and when I heard your voice you sounded so… off.”

“I know, Stiles,”

“I’m sorry too,”

“I know. So am I. Can you put Scott on now for a moment, please?”

“Wait—just… are you sure you’re okay?”

Peter chuckled at the omega’s awkward earnestness, but he cut it short when he realized how close that laugh felt to a sob. He just didn’t have the energy for that right then.

“Like I told you earlier, sweetheart. Everything’s fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Stiles pleaded, “Don’t tell me _everything’s_ fine when I’m asking about _you_. You do that so often, you know.”

Peter frowned. He hadn’t known, actually.

“So I’m going to ask you again: Peter, are _you_ okay?”

Peter took a minute to consider his response. The obvious answer was, obviously, not really. But Derek was waiting for him, and it was Christmas Eve, and Scott had a pack of his own to attend to and things to do, even if Stiles didn’t.

But Stiles had a point, didn’t he. They were supposed to be building a partnership here. Peter had been so caught up in taking care of Isaac and the bare animal desire he felt since he got his first sniff of Stiles that he’d agreed to Scott’s deal without seriously considering what, exactly, he was hoping to get out of his own mating.

He thought about their witty flirtations, about Stiles’ clever comebacks and that untrained yet eager spark of his.

He made a decision then and there that he wasn’t going to be the stereotypical entitled alpha. He would follow Malia’s example, and aim for better than what was expected of him. Even if he wasn’t always confident he’d make it.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Or something like that.

“Peter?” Stiles prompted, voice soft and inviting and above all, concerned.

He needed to answer Stiles, but he could sugar coat or deflect anymore. Not with Stiles. He didn’t need to treat him with kid gloves. He needed to respond to Stiles like the intelligent, respected person he was, like he would if Laura of Chris had asked him.

“Now’s not a good time,” he admitted. “I’m working my way through some things, but I don’t have the luxury of the time and space to get into it right now.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, still soft and encouraging. “Promise me you’ll call me tomorrow?”

Peter considered that for a moment before setting any expectations. “We’ll talk when I’m ready. Is that enough?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s good.”

“Good. Then go enjoy your Christmas Eve and sleep well, sweetheart. I really do need to speak with Scott.”

Stiles scoffed, and maybe it was just a little bit forced, “There you go again, telling me what to do,”

Peter heard the teasing lilt in his tone, but responded seriously anyway, “If you don’t like it, feel free to tell me to stop,”

“Hmm. I’ll take that under advisement,”

And despite the last hour, Peter found himself laughing. “Goodnight, omega.”

“Goodnight, Crankywolf.”

Then there was rustling and Stiles handing the phone off to Scott.

“What was that all about?” the young Alpha asked immediately as the reassuring beat Stiles’ heart faded.

“You need to contact your official emissary and make sure the Council knows Stiles’ spark is active.” Peter explained without leading up to it. He didn’t have the interest, nor the energy. Not even the time.

“Yeah, they already know. But it’s minor,”

Peter snorted. “Minor, huh? Scott, he’s been subconsciously tuning into my emotional frequency from half way across the state.”

Scott didn’t respond immediately. “uh…. Oops?”

“Just make sure the Council knows he’s becoming… attached. I don’t want us getting in trouble because he contacts me again without meaning to. I’ll report it from my end, but it’ll look better if they get corroboration from both of us.”

“Yeah, sure thing. I’ll talk to Lydia about it tonight, I think she’s still here.”

That caught his attention. “Lydia? She’s your emissary?”

Banshees were a particular brand of magic user, not technically a magical creature. Peter had heard of them seated among the Council a few times, but he wasn’t aware of one as young as Lydia appeared to be.

Scott laughed. “Hell no. I like to think of her as my supernatural advocate, though. I never deal with the Council without her. She’ll make sure this turn around and bit any of us on the ass, don’t worry.”

He didn’t know Lydia, but Stiles and Chris both had complete faith in her and an equally healthy bit of fear of her. He took Scott’s reassurance at face value and was surprised when he felt the knot of tension since Stiles’ first call begin to melt away.

“Sounds like a plan, Scott. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Peter. Tell Isaac something cheesy and romantic for me, yeah?”

Peter didn’t even feel bad when he hung up for the second time that night without a proper farewell. When he opened the office door to find Derek impatiently tapping his foot, he was as ready to face his pack as ever.

Course. It was only once he was watching Derek warily try to cozy up to an all too appreciative Chris that his second epiphany of the evening hit him.

Stiles. Subconsciously or otherwise, Stiles was becoming attached. To Peter.


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Smexy times ahead, along with some questionable scent kink of the potentially squicky variety. You have been warned ;)

All this omega nonsense was in full swing, and showed no signs of stopping, a week later.

Chris has decided to stay through New Years after he learned Scott and Stiles would not be taking up the guest room after all. It was simultaneously the best thing that could have happened and the absolute worst upheaval the pack had faced yet.

Because no one knew how to deal with Derek anymore. Not Peter, and certainly not Chris.

The omega was running hot and cold, showing tremendous leaps forward in his willingness to mate one moment, then turning tail and lashing out or fleeing scared the next. Derek couldn’t seem to bring himself to flirt, exactly, but he certainly putting forth more effort in his appearance and socializing more than he had in years so long as Chris was around, and everyone noticed. At the same time, he walked around in a cloud of anxiety and frustration (of the distinctly non-sexual kind) like it was a perfume he’d taken to pouring over his head each morning. Poor Chris had no way of knowing if a particular comment or movement would have Derek cuddling closer or avoiding him for the next few hours.

The pack at large wasn’t sure if they were impressed, concerned, amused, or arguably all three at once, at any given time. There were a lot of awkward and sudden silences as a result, and they only seemed to bother Derek in the instances when he wasn’t so hyper-focused on Chris to notice. Which was less often than one might expect.

No one could decide if that was a good thing or a bad one.

And so that situation persisted for the four days following Christmas, right up until they were otherwise distracted by Scott’s arrival.

And Stiles.

Good lord, Stiles.

“My god! Can we keep him!?” Erica whined, hugging Stiles’ arm to her chest and shooting Peter her best begging-puppy eyes. They were not as effective as they had been before she learned how to use heavy eyeliner.

“But of course!” Laura cried emphatically where she sat pressed to Stiles’ other side, petting his hair and getting her alpha scent all over him. She held Peter’s eye and grinned wickedly the entire time.

He had never hated her quite so much.

Stiles just sat there, soaking up the attention and smirking at Peter like the cat who got the cream. “Hear that, wolfman? You’re keeping me.”

Somehow, he managed to make that statement both a threat, a flirtation, and announcement of victory. Peter wasn’t sure how it made him feel. Beside aroused.

“That’s more or less the point,” Scott reminded him distractedly.

Peter couldn’t really blame him, he would be distracted too if Stiles were practically sitting in his lap the way Isaac was, one long leg strewn over Scott’s thighs. Peter was, admittedly, so busy glaring at Laura’s fucking _stroking_ hand on Stiles’ shoulder to be bothered policing the other couple too closely; Scott was taking the opportunity to rub Isaac’s knee, the pads of his fingers pressing dangerously to the inside of the omega’s jean-clad thigh.

Thankfully, Chris wasn’t so caught up in a currently-icy Derek. He smacked Scott’s elbow none-too-gently as he passed the armchair where the pair were perched.

“I think it might be time the alpha wolves in the building start keeping their hands to themselves,” Peter grumbled, following Chris’ lead and yanking Laura’s offending hand hard enough to pull her off the couch.

Laura’s grin was unhampered, “Oh? Did me touching your omega bother you, Alpha Hale?”

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he snarked, smiling tightly.

“I get the feeling you attract and encourage a very particular kind of personality,” Stiles added helpfully, looking entirely unbothered by the recent molestation.

“That’s so true!” Erica agreed, giving him an amazed stare. “It’s like he invites the taunting, right?”

Stiles nodded sagely, “It’s clearly a pathological need to surround himself with assholes.”

“I know, right!?”

“It’s okay,” Laura told them, flinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders and patting his chest affectionately, “We know he loves us anyway.”

“Obviously,” Stiles met Peter’s eye as he grinned, but spoke to everyone else as he said, “You’re all aware it’s a coping mechanism to avoid uncomfortable emotional intimacy, and you comport yourselves accordingly.”

From the far corner where she was repackaging Christmas ornaments, Cora cackled. Boyd, who was helping her, nodded. Beside them, Derek gave a shrug of reluctant, though not upset, agreement with the statement.

Laura patted his chest again and announced “Like a pack should!”

Peter wanted to smack them all. Particularly Stiles, right on that pert little ass. Repeatedly. Till the brat was red and squirming.

The fantasy was an excellent exercise in avoiding the kernel of truth Stiles might have just kicked up.

“This will never work,” He told the room with an aggrieved sigh, “I’m sorry, Scott, but I can’t possibly take Stiles to mate. I’d be completely overrun by little shits under his influence.”

Scott gave him a sympathetic shrug and pointedly pulled an unresisting Isaac fully into his lap, “Hate to tell you, man, but that sounds like a you-problem by this point.”

Isaac, the traitor, giggled and snuggled closer.

“You,” Peter pointed at the blond accusingly, “Enough. You can go sit next to Stiles or you can leave the room, your pick.”

Isaac whined, but he went willingly enough when Scott helped up with an unnecessary grip on his hips to lift him and a quick pat on the ass to hurry him along.

“I saw that,” Peter frowned at Scott.

“We all saw that,” Boyd corrected as Cora placed another ornament in the box he held for her. 

“Not fair,” Stiles grumbled, “Peter never sneaks a grope with me,”

“Yes,” Peter agreed, all cool composure, “Because when I start groping you, I don’t intend to be stopped,”

“Ugh!” At least three people exclaimed.

“Peter!” Scott scolded, though it sounded more like a whine.

Stiles, of course, just blushed harder as the wolves in the room gave Peter shit for the sudden aroma of slick and omega sweetness permeating the room.

Chris, the only human nose in the room, threw his head back and laughed. Derek watched him and bit his lip with an unreadable expression on his face.

Peter couldn’t begin to guess at the thoughts and feeling behind Derek’s scent. He refused to consider it when he could be drowning his senses in the latest wave of Stiles’ interest instead.

Stiles was not on suppressants, of course, but he had agreed to a short-term solution to make the visit easier on Peter’s instincts. Scott’s official, Council-assigned emissary had crafted a talisman to diminish the libido of the wearer. Unfortunately, this reaction was neither consistently effective, nor did it stop Stiles’ body from trying to make up for the interruption to his ordinarily copious and fluctuating bodily secretions.

Since having that warning explained by a blushing Scott just that morning, Peter could hardly wait to have unlimited access to said _secretions_. God, but even he felt like a perv, just thinking that. A shameless, downright giddy perv.

“And that note,” Stiles said with an awkward laugh that didn’t match the light and mischievous scent accompanying all that sweetness, “I’m just going to go find the little omega’s room and clean up.”

He walked right by Peter on his way out of the room.

“Woah there,” Laura teased, tugging the back of Peter’s collar to keep him from following.

Oh. No. She’d merely grabbed the fabric, he was the one doing the tugging.

Peter managed to save face by tripping her up as he shrugged her hold off. Then he did the responsible-alpha thing and sat his ass down instead of sniffing after his omega. If he happened to sit in center couch where the lingering fragrance of sex was strongest, no one said anything.

When Peter’s own arousal had settled into a low-grade, but persistent simmer, everyone kept mum.

No one single word was uttered when Stiles came back twenty minutes later, smelling of the neutral soap the pack kept in stock, with a taunting undertone of cum and satisfaction.

They all kept their mouths shut, like the socially aware wolves they were. Sometimes. Sex and all its related signals could be a tricky topic to navigate in a house full supernatural senses and questionable opinions about the merits of social niceties.

But no one seemed interested in pushing the teasing too far with so many non-pack (presumptive or otherwise) around. Isaac and Scott mostly had blinders on to the rest of them, but everyone was still feeling out Chris and, since they’d only just met him this morning, Stiles. Consciously or not, they were all hoping the two of them would choose to become pack; with Stiles, the implication was explicit, but no one was quite sure what Chris would do once he was legally responsible for Derek.

All of that, plus the way Isaac kept making eyes at Scott from beside him, helped Peter shove his desire for Stiles to the far back recesses of his mind for the rest of the afternoon and early evening. Then Scott and Stiles took off for their hotel, and all the distraction from arousal turned around to bite him in the ass.

Peter entered his bedroom and his cock jumped to full mast as if enraged at being ignored the entire day.

“Wait,” he told himself, suspicion rearing its head alongside the arousal.

There was something in the air. A scent. Just a little hint of something… sweet. In his bedroom.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, equally delighted and dismayed. “Stiles, you little shit….”

He couldn’t help himself. He closed his eyes as he stepped further into the room and breathed deep. That hint of something sinful and sexual, of pure, inviting _omega_ , tickled his pallet and nearly had him drooling. Eyes stubbornly close, teasing himself, Peter fully expected to find his face buried in his bedding.

Instead, he nearly broke his nose on the closed door to the master bathroom.

“The fuck—” he opened his eyes, his irritation out of proportion with the inconvenience of having to open the door. When he did---“Ugh,”

He might as well have been punched in the gut.

The subtle hint of omega sex in his bedroom hadn’t been a hint at all. It had been a warning. The moment he opened the bathroom and broke the seal of the carefully closed door, a virtual flood of scent struck him stupid. It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize what had happened, and when he finally pulled his mind from the brink of freakin’ rut he was on the bathroom floor holding a scrap of fabric to his face with no idea how he’d gotten there.

Stiles had enacted his revenge for the dildo gift.

He realized, belated, that Stiles had _not_ masturbated in the bathroom of the main house earlier as everyone thought. He’d somehow smuggled himself into Peter’s private bathroom for the did.

He’d used his slick-smeared briefs as a cum rag, and left it hanging neatly beside Peter’s bath towel.

“You wonderful asshole,” Peter growled quietly.

And speaking of wonderful assholes: once his human mind caught up with his wolf brain, Peter shamelessly pried the sticky edges of cloth apart and turned the underwear nearly inside out. The cum was long dry, but in the hours since Stiles abandoned the briefs, the slick had gone merely sticky and slightly discolored. In another hour, Peter would admit it was pretty gross, but that was so far and utterly removed from the present moment.

Stiles wasn’t on suppressants. The fucking talisman hadn’t altered his slick in the slightest.

God, but he had to have a taste. Just a small one. Stiles clearly wanted him to know what he tasted like, and what kind of alpha would he be if he disappointed his omega so-- Somehow, he managed to reign himself in enough to keep from lapping at the soiled cloth like a fucking animal, but it was a close call.

Peter fumbled his phone out of his pocket and dialed hastily, looking just like a junkie in need of a fix.

“Hey, Pet—”

“Stiles. Now.” Peter growled, nothing but rage in his tone. “And put your goddamn headphones on, or you’ll hear something you won’t appreciate,”

“Woah, uh, hold up. I gotta ask—”

In the background, he heard Stiles, loud and clear, as he rested the phone away. “Bad, Scotty. It’s time to let the adults talk,”

“What did _you_ _do_? He sounds pissed---”

Stiles laughed, “Oh, Scotty, you silly boy,” then he said into the phone flippantly: “Peter, are you pissed?”

“Furious,” Peter rumbled, low and dark. In the bathroom mirror, his eyes were blazing red over the hand that held the briefs to his nose.

“See?” Stiles told Scott cheerily, “He’s not pissed.”

“How on earth does that not sound—”

“Oh, dear summer child,” Stiles laughed.

“Enough,” Peter snarled into the phone. “Your attention needs to be on me right now, omega.”

Just like that, Stiles’ voice went low and sugary, “Yes, alpha,”

“Oh my god,” Scott hissed, comprehension finally dawning.

As the sound of Scott scrambling for his headphones faded into the background, Peter told Stiles: “Tell me honestly, Stiles; were you trying to send me into rut?”

God, but he wished he’d had the presence of mind to video-call. He had nothing, no visual or olfactory cues to go on, just the uptick of Stiles’ heartbeat in the otherwise deafening silence.

“… not exactly,” Stiles whispered, and he sounded like every wet dream Peter ever had.

Peter growled, and Stiles made a low little whine that made him think the boy must be so, so wet at that moment.

“I…” Stiles cleared his throat, but it did nothing to alter the husky rasp to his voice, “I hoped it’d have some affect though,”

Peter’s responding laugh was quiet and dangerous. Sensual. “Oh, it had an affect,”

“Mmm?” Stiles moaned, trying and failing to sound uninterested, “How- how do you mean?”

Peter paused to consider his response. He shifted the fabric between his fingers till his forefinger caught in the mess of slick. His cock was so hard it hurt.

“Peter?’” Stiles whispered, almost pleading, “… Alpha?”

“I think you could have done better,” he almost pulled off the conversational tone, except he was still whispering and his voice remained an octave or two too low. “If I’d come up here hours ago, I’m sure your little gift would have still been warm and wet and perfectly irresistible, much as I’m sure the ones you’re wearing now are,”

“Yeah,” Stiles admitted, sounding almost bashful, “Probably…”

“You might have made a better presentation of it, is all,” Peter lamented, “If it’d been fresher, I’d have your taste on my tongue by now,”

Stiles gave a strained laugh, “You have no idea how much I want that right now. The right way. Not from my underwear,”

“Just say the word,” Peter said as he put his phone down so he could unzip his pants without relinquishing the briefs for a moment. “Just tell Scott you’re ready; he can bring you right back here and I can be licking inside you within the hour,”

There was a harsh gasp, and Peter’s imagination went haywire wondering how else Stiles might be reacting.

For his part, Peter was already stroking his cock as he told Stiles in no uncertain terms: “You’re going to hang up the phone and give it back to Scott without saying a word. Then you’re going to find someplace private. You can play with your cock all you like, but don’t you dare touch that hole. It’s mine.”

Stiles choked. Then, breathlessly: “Yes, Alpha,”

“Good boy,” Peter huffed, squeezing just a little harder.

“Are… are you…?”

“Yesss,” Peter hissed, letting Stiles hear the pleasure in his voice as he twisted his closed fist around his head.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles whined, and there was nothing quiet or contained about it. Any moment now, Scott was going to intervene either because Stiles was going to give in to the urge to touch himself or because he must be smelling just that good.

But not yet. Quickly, while he still had the omega’s undivided attention, Peter yanked on his flesh in a mad race to finish. With Stiles’ underwear right in front of his face, it didn’t take long. He bit his lip and let all manner of noises free, not even caring if Scott heard or not.

He came with Stiles’ scent clogging his nose and the omega’s panting, whining breaths in his ear.

“Holy shit!” Stiles squeaked as Peter began to recover his breath. Then he abruptly ended the call.

Peter grinned and finally dropped the soiled pants. He gave an exhausted groan as he relaxed back against the bathroom wall. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so satisfied-- 

A cheerful tune knocking on his door sounded from his bedroom, closely followed by Laura’s laughter and Isaac’s voice:

“If we’re making allowances for chaperoned phone sex now, I’m next,”

Fuck. He’d forgotten to close his fucking door. That first hint of slick in his room really had struck him dumb.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay-- the coronavirus crisis is throwing all sorts of things out of wack right now. Hopefully, I made up for the delay with the extra long chapter.   
> I also hope this provides some people with a welcome distraction.   
> Stay safe, folks. Enjoy.

Being Pack Alpha apparently meant nothing to the wolves of Beacon Hills.

Immediately after his epic phone call to Stiles, the entire pack knew what had happened. Every last one of them, and not one cared to let him forget it. The teasing only got worse when Stiles and Scott came back the following morning.

Peter didn’t mind the taunting about the sex. Ironically, he almost enjoyed it, or at least the way Stiles would blush and smirk, like he was the tiniest bit embarrassed but not nearly as much as he was proud and pleased. Truly, neither of them seemed to mind the pack knowing the sincere and significant affect the omega had on the Pack Alpha.

What Peter minded—and his pack was well aware— was the way he’d lost any and all regard for his situational awareness. He couldn’t believe he’d left the goddamn door open.

So the pack teased him, even Boyd and Chris threw him a smirk or a wiggle of their brows over Stiles’ head every once in a while. As a result, Peter’s already strained good humor was further hindered by a healthy dose of irritation by the time New Year’s Eve rolled around.

“Maybe after he goes back to San Diego,” Isaac mused for the hundredth time, as he handed Peter his first cup of coffee for the day, “I’m thinking that would be a good time for me to call and sex Scott up,”

Peter glared silently as he drank. His insistence that Isaac was not, in fact, having phone sex with him in the room had been resolutely ignored so far.

And then Cora had found a fake bunch of mistletoe at the local Walmart and hung it in the archway between the living room and dining room. Peter had unashamedly dragged Stiles over for a not-quite-appropriate kiss in response to his niece’s teasing.

It was a lovely moment, right up until Derek saw the mistletoe.

“What if Chris wants to _kiss me_?!” Derek later exploded at Peter, and his next demand was more of a typical omega whine than anything Peter had heard from him in years: “What do I _do_!?”

Peter had barely escaped that conversation before he’d run straight into Stiles in the hall.

“Happy New Year and belated Merry Christmas!” the minx grinned widely, eyes practically sparkling in a way Peter was sure he shouldn’t trust. “You might want to open this in private though! Like now.”

Then he shoved a small clothing box into Peter’s hands and ran away snickering.

“Peter!?” Derek hissed, desperate at he followed Peter into the hall. “I don’t know what to do!”

Peter tucked the parcel under his arm and turned baleful eyes on his nephew. “Stop overthinking it, Derek. Do whatever it is you want to do.”

Derek froze in the middle of the hallway, somehow more alarmed than reassured. “… And if I don’t know…?”

“Kiss him or don’t, Derek. You’re a big boy, you’ll figure it out. Now, if you don’t mind,” He tapped on the parcel’s front corner pointedly and used the convenient excuse to run away.

His office was closer than his bedroom, but considering who had given the gift and his track record for leaving Peter unexpected presents, Peter wasn’t taking chances. He made a beeline for his room, not relaxing till he’d successfully closed and locked the door behind him. Then, leaning his back against the door, he studied the box.

It was wrapped in obnoxiously bright red and glittery gold paper that was unusually thick. Suspicious, Peter sniffed at the box, but all he could smell was the tape residue on the paper and the perfume of something light and flowery.

There was nothing… _untoward_.

Still, he was suspicious. He expected something lascivious, neutral scent be damned. This was Stiles, after all.

Handcuffs, maybe? Stiles was human, Peter wouldn’t need anything fancy to tie him up. No, no, the box was too light, too quiet when jostled.

Food of some kind? Maybe something aphrodisiac in nature? If it was bottled, it would certainly explain the absence of any delicious smells.

Peter had never been so eager and simultaneously so reluctant to open a gift.

Fuck it.

He tore open the paper to uncover a boring white clothing box. He popped the lid to find a sea of tissue paper, unusually thick like the red and gold wrappings, with a single white note card on top. Scribbled across its surface in Stiles’ untidy scrawl were the words:

_How’s this for “presentation,” my alpha?_

And just like that, Peter’s cock was hard as steel.

He lifted the card slowly, anticipation building. He sniffed at it and noted the condensed scent of that perfectly mild perfume. Then, card caught between two fingers, he used the tip of his pinky to flick back the top layers of neatly folded tissue.

The fragrance of Stiles’ slick didn’t knock him over only because he was braced for something— _anything_.

“This brat,” he laughed to himself, dropping the card unceremoniously and shoving his hand into the tissue paper.

His breath caught at the cool, smooth texture of silk against his fingers. Sure enough, he pulled a pair of deep red panties from the box, the crotch dark with slick. Fresh slick.

“Fuck,” he growled.

Stiles must have been wearing these all morning, dripping all over them whenever his interest was piqued enough to overcome the talisman. Or maybe he’d dared to take the damn thing off for a while…

“Maybe…?”

Peter dropped the box and brought the panties to his face as he crossed the room, heading for his bathroom. All he smelled was slick. No cum. So Stiles hadn’t done anything too naughty…

No, he had not, sadly. Peter’s bathroom was woefully untouched, no sign of omega anywhere.

Well, then. He supposed he didn’t feel too put out.

Standing in his bathroom doorway, Peter turned the scrap of silk over in his fingers, till his thumb slid into a puddle of wet and warm fabric. This time, he gave into the urge to lick it, and it was _marvelous_.

No, he wasn’t too put out at all.

It would have made an excellent end to the day, except it was only just after lunch time. Peter was still sucking at the fabric when someone came knocking on his door. Peter ignored it till he was satisfied there was no more slick on the panties to be enjoyed. If he was lucky, the visitor would go away and he could treat himself to a nice wank or two before rejoining the house.

He was not, apparently, that lucky.

Peter set the panties in his laundry basket and contemplated making the knocker wait anyway. He deserved a good orgasm after all the stress of the past few months.

The next knock turned into a vicious and insistent pounding, demanding his immediate attention. His room was too well soundproofed to hear if anyone was yelling at him, but the knocking was clear as day. It wasn’t fair. Very little about being a Pack Leader was, though.

Maybe the house was on fire. And if it wasn’t, maybe whoever was bothering him deserved to deal with the stench of his arousal.

“God,” Malia sneered when he opened the door, her nose wrinkling, “Why the hell aren’t you mated already?”

“Stiles needs to finish the semester. At least,” Peter admitted, grumpy about necessary the reminder.

Malia’s expression made it clear she didn’t see the sense in that, but she shrugged it off and moved onto more important things. Ever practical, their Malia.

“I need you to proof read this and send it for me,” she announced as she shoved a piece of paper in his hand.

Peter snatched the page from her without moving to let her into his room. She didn’t mind. The pack was allowed in his office, but not his bedroom. It was his private space, the one and only area of their territory that smelled of him and only him. No one else was allowed.

Well. Only Stiles was allowed.

“What is…?” he let the question die as he began to read. It became quite obvious what it was after the first sentence.

Oh, Malia.

She had lulled him into a false sense of security, hadn’t she. In all the absurdity and rollercoaster of emotions that Isaac, Derek, and Stiles had brought down on him this holiday season, she had been the only omega in his life to remain drama-free and an appreciated non-pain in his ass. And now she had to go and ruin it.

Peter was holding a contract in his hand.

It was a rough draft, to be sure, simplistic and short even, but there was no mistaking it. Malia had written herself a traditional mating contract. There was even a spot at the bottom for Peter to sign and date, right next to the one assigned to Deucalion.

The only non-traditional component was the third signature line, already filled out with Malia’s smooth, looping letters and today’s date.

He looked at her seriously, his arousal long gone.

“Are you sure about this?”

She nodded curtly, “Absolutely,”

“You’ve met him once,”

“And I’m confident he’s as good as I’ll get,”

He sighed, “Malia, you don’t have to jump on the first alpha to seem half way decent—”

“I’m not Isaac,” she told him, frowning, “I’m not hoping for a love match, Peter. Attraction would be nice, maybe, but that won’t help me lead a pack. Deucalion will.”

Peter frowned at her, and a dark doubt niggled at the back of his mind till the discomfort forced him to open his mouth. “I know you always wanted to be a Pack Leader, Malia. But you are an omega,”

The corners of her mouth tightened, “I’m aware,”

“Are you?” he said softly, “Because I’m not sure you have realistic expectations about what Deucalion will be willing to go along with,”

A flash of hurt passed over her face. “You think I can’t do it,”

“No, I know you can,” he corrected hastily, “You’re one of the most capable people I know, dynamic be damned. But…”

“But what?” she growled and, if she’d been an alpha in truth, he was certain he’d have taken as a challenge.

He was careful with his words. He thought them through, taking the time even as it gave her anger longer to simmer.

“You need a mate, and you don’t have a lot of time to find one,” he said slowly, reminding her of the bare facts first, “I’m worried you’re expecting things too soon of someone who might not be able to meet all of those expectations.”

She scoffed, disbelieving, “What? And you think I can do better? Peter, he’s the one _you_ suggested for me,”

“And I still do,” he replied levelly, “But I think you’ll both be happier if you take a little time to figure each other out and compromise where needed _before_ you’re bound together irrevocably. If you want to approach your mating like a business transaction, great, but even major corporations with lesser stakes take time and repeated meetings to negotiate before they make any official moves.”

“Fine.” She snapped, yanking the paper out of his hand and turning from him in a huff, “Then set up a few more meetings, Peter. I won’t sit here with my thumb up my ass while you keep distracting yourself with Stiles.”

She stormed off, and it truly felt like all of Peter’s good vibes flew away with her.

Malia was in a fouled mood the rest of the day. She skipped dinner and as night fell and the rest of the pack got rowdier with celebratory cheer, she snuck off into the woods with only a text to Laura to notify anyone. She promised she’d be back by 1 am. Laura suggested Peter be in bed by then.

In the meantime, Peter did his best not to be too _distracted with Stiles_.

It was easier than he might have expected. This was, of course, entirely Isaac’s and Derek’s faults. These damn omegas were trying to kill him from stress.

Isaac had apparently decided that afternoon that just because Stiles wasn’t ready to mate shouldn’t mean he couldn’t.

“Happy New Year, my alpha,” he purred into Scott’s ear as he handed him a glass of Deaton’s wolvesbane-brewed mead and damn nearly crawled into his lap.

“Happy New Year, my omega,” Scott cooed, readily accepting both glass and boy.

“Wasn’t there supposed to be a two-inches-of-space rule, or something?” Laura asked, unconcerned, as she bumped Peter’s shoulder and joined him at glaring at the couple.

Peter shrugged, “It’s New Year’s.”

He was also hoping to steal a pretty major kiss from Stiles at midnight, and far be it from him to be accused of hypocrisy. At least, not currently. Besides, by letting Isaac get handsy, he was laying the groundwork for Derek to get over himself and maybe, just maybe, get a little lip action of his own. Honestly, it was a winning situation for everyone.

As if she could read his mind, Laura craned her head to look behind them. Peter could imagine what she was seeing: even if his scent had been broadcasting, Derek was fairly emanating anxious excitement from the breakfast bar. Poor omega hadn’t moved an inch in the past hour, not since he sat down to watch Chris and Stiles make monkey bread pizookies (it was apparently a San Diego Pack tradition).

When Laura spoke, eyes locked on her brother, her voice was low and quiet enough that only Peter would hear. “Think he’ll go for it?”

Peter gave her another unconcerned shrug, “Possibly. Derek’s been talking himself up to it all day,”

Laura smacked his shoulder gently, “Not Derek. Chris.”

Peter raised a brow. Huh.

He turned just enough to keep Isaac and his wandering hands in his periphery, and sure enough: there was Derek, perched at the bar, and aiming that perpetually grumpy face across it at Chris. Christopher, for his part, looked like he was ignoring the staring to anyone who didn’t know him as well as Peter did. The human’s shoulders were tense, his movements not quite as smooth as when he was at ease. 

Damn it. Peter couldn’t scent anything off the human beneath all the cooking and Derek’s over-the-top emotional confliction.

He nudged Laura. “You think he won’t?”

“If Derek asks, I’m sure he would,”

“Ah,” Who knew if Derek would ever bring himself to ask. They could only hope.

And Chris was precisely the type of stand-up alpha who wouldn’t dare lay his lips on someone without expressed consent. Peter remembered Chris’ obvious desire when they’d watched Derek swim that day from the hotel balcony. He wondered if he should do anything to help the two of them along.

Scott made a harsh sound, like he’d been punched.

Peter spun back to them, already growling warningly: “Isaac!”

He’d caught sight of Isaac leaping out of Scott’s lap from his periphery, but he hadn’t caught whatever he’d done to Scott. All he knew was that Scott smelled both shocked and aroused, and was gaping up at the omega. Said omega was blushing bright, smelling like a wet dream, and pointedly avoiding both alphas’ eyes.

“For crying out loud,” Laura griped, “Go take a cold shower, omega,”

Without another word, Isaac scampered. His head was down, almost ashamedly, but he was also grinning.

Scott’s bashful blush was far more believable. He pulled the table cloth more fully over his lap and looked everywhere but at Peter.

“I don’t want to know,” Peter assured him.

Scott nodded, looking relieved, “Good idea,”

“Here’s another good idea,” Boyd glowered as he entered the room through the same door Isaac had just raced out of. He pointed at Scott’s face in a way that wouldn’t have flied with most any other alpha, “You. Mate him or keep him off your damn lap. You make him impossible to live with.”

“Here, here!” Erica crowed from the kitchen, where she was stealing cookie dough from the pizookie pan Stiles was trying to put together.

“I second that,” Derek grouched, not bothering to look away from Chris.

“Duuude!” Stiles whined. He swatted Erica’s hand away absently as he turned the full force of cute, betrayed omega eyes on Scott, “You _promised_! Keep it in your pants for just a few more weeks, yeah?”

Scott winced, and Peter wondered if he really had been considering moving the mating up for a wild moment.

Stiles went bug-eyed, and nearly laid his entire body across the bar in a misguided attempt to loom closer to Scott threateningly. It wasn’t very effective. “Scott McCall! You. Promised!”

“I don’t get the issue,” Chris intervened, “This is as good as a done deal by now. Why do Scott and Stiles need to wait till Stiles is ready?”

From upstairs, Isaac’s voice cheered: “Thank you, Chris!”

While all this was said, Chris had snagged the back of Stiles’ plaid shirt and lifted him back off the counter. Something about the motion and the casual way Chris did it, patient and familiar, reminded Peter of a mama lion bodily scolding a cub. It made Peter realize abruptly that Chris had history with Stiles as much as with Scott, something almost paternal.

Perhaps, the unspoken hopes of the pack that Chris would become honorary pack shouldn’t be left unspoken for much longer. 

Isaac’s voice still reverberating through the house, Scott’s blush deepened and he shot Stiles an apologetic glance. “That’s a good point—”

“You’ll lose all leverage, of course,” Laura told Scott as she sat beside him with a conniving grin, “You’ll have Isaac several weeks early, but you’ll also still have Stiles, with no gaurauntee Peter will have him now Isaac’s settled.”

Stiles reared back dramatically. “Et tu, Laura!?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him and winked, “Just keeping everyone honest,”

Peter smacked the back of her head. She ignored him.

Scott’s blush vanished under the weight of his unimpressed glare, “ _Honest_? We honestly already know Peter’s gone on Stiles. Chris is right, it’s practically a done deal,”

Stiles huffed, and even under all the clogging scent of cinnamon and sugar, he smelled of irritation and anxiety.

Goodness, but Stiles had to know Scott was right. Surely.

“Fine!” Stiles snapped, and he ripped the pan of uncooked dough from Erica’s sneaking fingers and removed it entirely. His chem-signals didn’t match his haughty flippancy though. “Be that way. Peter!?”

Peter snapped out of his musings to focus fully on his own omega. “Yes, darling?”

“If Scott and Isaac are jumping the gun, I want to get married.”

Everyone froze.

Peter included. For his part, the shock was almost immediately curtailed by racing thoughts about Stiles’ motivations from such a thing.

Marriage wasn’t necessary for most wolves, not when mating was the permanent factor and was far less risky, particularly for a Pack Leader. A pack couldn’t be torn apart by a bad mating, so few and far between, because bad matings tended to lead to Council intervention and even the couple being reassigned to another pack.

A divorce, on the other hand…. If it wasn’t secured by a mating, that sort of thing could divide the resources and minds of a pack to the point of self-destruction. No Pack Leader in their right mind would do it.

At the same time, Peter could smell that Stiles wasn’t intending to paint him into a disastrous corner. He was desperately trying to cover his own ass in case Peter really was just playing games. Scott had warned him early on that Stiles had worrisome self-esteem issues at times. It was the whole reason Scott had originally begun looking to make a trade with another pack.

And Peter had yet another epiphany. Stiles was more likely to accept a pack deal at face value than believe he was wanted as badly as Peter was beginning to want him.

That wouldn’t do at all.

Stiles, though he had to have known what that sort of proposition might mean to a roomful of wolves (plus one Council-retiree), seemed startled by the sudden silence in the room. His back stiffened and he stared around at them, his startlement shifting to unease and then defensive anger.

“What? It’s assures us Peter will mate me eventually, even with Scott’s side of the deal met.”

“That’s…” Laura looked skyward as she tried to find a delicate way to word her thoughts, “a pretty major risk for us if you change your mind—”

“It’s a good idea!” Stiles snapped.

At the same time, Scott tried to cut Laura off with a reassuring, “Let’s not get ahead—”

“Alpha McCall, Stiles.” Everyone shut up as Peter addressed them gravely. “Let’s continue this conversation upstairs in my office, please. Laura?”

At his pointed look toward Derek and Chris, Laura hoped to her feet and saluted. “Yes, sir. I’ve got the chaperone thing on lock.”

Derek groaned and dropped his face into his folded arms. It did nothing to hide the pink of his ears.

Chris chuckled, gazing at him fondly, and the tension in the room began to ease.

When Stiles and Scott followed him into the office, it was the younger alpha who slammed the door closed and turned a sterned expression on the omega.

“What the hell, Stiles? I thought you trusted me more than that. You know I wouldn’t leaving you hanging.”

In the office, so far from the kitchen, Stiles’ anger was thick and rancid in Peter’s nose. “Yeah, well it sure looks like you are. You said this would be a smooth trade precisely to avoid anyone risking the uncertainty you running off and mating would leave me in for _weeks_.”

“That uncertainty is all in your head, Stiles!”

“ _In my head_!?”

Peter winced, knowing immediately this was the wrong approach.

“Enough.”

Peter interrupted bodily, putting himself between them. He waited for them both to calm down a little before he continued. When he did, he turned pointedly to address Stiles and only Stiles, and used his calmest, most authoritative and trustworthy tone in his arsenal.

“Let’s entertain this situation seriously: Scott and Isaac run off tomorrow and mate, warning or no, where does that put us?”

Stiles’ jaw worked like he was chewing on his tongue to keep from speaking rashly, before he did so anyway. “Screwed.”

“No,” Peter corrected, “it technically removes the concept of this being a trade. Scott will have Isaac and I will not have you _in that moment_.”

“Yeah,” Stiles huffed, like Peter was being the thick one, “and there’s no guarantee you ever will,”

“And if we eloped the same hour Scott gave Isaac his bite, neither I nor my pack have a guarantee you won’t end up destroying us,”

Stiles blanched, “I wouldn’t—”

“And I wouldn’t abandon you,” Peter countered easily, “In both situations, one of us has to take a risk and trust the other. The difference is, you would be risking your best future prospect, whereas I, as a werewolf and Pack Leader, would be risking my life and the futures of my entire pack.”

His was a wonderfully smart omega, and Stiles had no problem following the logic and implications even if his emotions were trying their hardest to get in the way. He deflated, no longer meeting Peter’s eye, and the scent of anger shifted into something closer to fear and dejection.

Peter didn’t want that.

He took Stiles’ face in his hands and lifted. He kissed him, just a small, slow peck. It conveyed promise more than sensuality.

Stiles didn’t know what to do with it. He inhaled through his mouth, shaky but silent, and his wide eyes watered.

“I would have you right now,” Peter told him, without flirtation or pretense. “But neither one of us wants to sacrifice your education in exchange for immediate gratification. I won’t marry you either. Not like this.”

Then he remembered Malia, and her clever, if rushed paperwork.

He released Stiles’ face and rounded Scott on his way to his desk. He grabbed the first clear paper he saw and wrote as he spoke.

“Scott, wether you’re serious or not about running off with Isaac sooner rather than later, I think we can agree this is acceptable. “

He signed his name at the bottom of his hastily written note and turned it and the pen over to Scott.

Scott scanned it and laughed. “This has got to be the most _untraditional_ traditional mating contract ever written.”

Peter shrugged, “You obviously haven’t seen Malia’s take on it,”

Scott pinned the paper to the nearest wall and signed. Then he handed the page to Stiles on his way to open the office door.

“Isaac!” he shouted, “Get in here!”

“ _The werewolf packs for Beacon Hills and San Diego, respectively,”_ Stiles read aloud, “ _hereby agree to the mutually beneficial trade of pack-recognized omegas via matings to the Pack Alphas. Alpha Peter Hale is hereafter required to take omega Stiles Stilinski to mate, as is Alpha Scott McCall required to take Isaac Lahey to mate._

 _“These terms are to be met at said omegas’ convenience and within the Council-prescribed time frame, irrespective of one another’s situation or preferences beyond such constraints._ ”

As Stiles finished reading, the color had returned to his pale cheeks and his scent had lightened with pleasant surprise.

“Huh,” he said, “Well, that sure blows my half-assed proposal out of the water,”

Peter quirked a brow at him, “I take it this addresses your concerns then, sweetheart?”

Stiles’ smile was tentative and embarrassed, “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that,”

Then he picked up another pen from Peter’s desk and scrawled his signature on the third line Peter had provided for him.

Five seconds later, Isaac signed at well, without even bothering to read the damn thing.

Fifteen minutes after that, and Stiles was rescuing the first of the pizookies from the oven while Isaac and Scott distracted Chris (among others) with giddy chatter about their “imminent” mating.

And hours later...

“— 3! 2! 1!— Happy New Year!”

Peter got his wildly inappropriate kiss. And his perfect omega made it even better by jumping up and wrapping those long, slender limbs around him tight. Peter didn’t grope his ass like he wanted to, but only because he’d been serious about not being stopped once he went down that road.

“Woo-hoo!”

“Rawr!”

“Yeah, baby!”

Peter might have ignored the taunting catcalls of the pack. He would have. Except they weren’t directed at him.

His and Stiles’ lips parted, their head turning in synch, just in time to see Derek holding a wide-eyed Chris firmly by the sides of his shirt collar, pressing their lips together in a solid, full-contact kiss.

Chris’ hand, the one not holding his champagne glass, did an awkward little jerk. It was like he didn’t know what to do with it, if he should grab onto Derek or not. Before he could make up his mind or recover enough to enjoy the kiss, Derek released him and took a step back.

The unflappable, legendry Hunter gaped at him. Speechless.

“Way to go, Derek!” Erica cheered. Even Boyd was grinning.

Derek scowled at them all, crossing his arms tightly, ears and the back of his neck burning red.

Chris just stared at him. There was no way the omega wolf missed the interest and hunger in the alpha’s scent, in his stare.

Unfortunately, Chris was one of the only humans and certainly _did_ miss the responding sweetness perfuming the air. The teasing jeers of the pack stuttered to a halt, and despite themselves, the pack stared.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles prodded Peter’s cheek.

“Nothing…” Peter said.

Derek’s blush finally bled onto his face, but with it came the expression of alarm. He met Chris’ hungry gaze, stiffened like a cornered rabbit, and ran out of the room.

Chris blinked. “What…?”

Laura crossed the room in two long strides and tackled him in a hug that lifted the taller alpha off his feet. “You miracle worker, you!”

“Alright, alright, calm down.” Peter called, rallying attention before the pack could explode into excited mutterings. He grabbed Stiles by the waist and set him back on his own two feet reluctantly, and couldn’t quite make himself let go entirely, so he settled for tucking the boy against his side.

“Derek likes you!” Cora crowed at Chris, “Like, he _like_ likes you,”

“Whole lot of liking there,” Boyd agreed.

“Enough,” Peter scolded, “Get over your amazement that Derek is capable of arousal as much as anyone else. The last thing he needs is all of us drawing attention to it. Give him some space. All of you.”

“That means you too, Laura!” Isaac snickered.

She scoffed, “Excuse you. I am his big sister,”

“Laura,” Peter glared, “Leave it alone.”

And for once, she did.

Peter squeezed Stiles tighter, watching Chris slowly process the fact that Derek was finally responding to him as an omega should to his alpha. Not far away, Scott was crowding Isaac against the wall and whispering something about his bed in San Diego.

He had a feeling it was going to be a happy new year, indeed.


	13. Thirteen

Scott and Stiles went home after dinner on January second, Chris reluctantly following suit later that same evening. By the fifth, Isaac was beside himself with eagerness to chase after them. By the sixth, Peter was ready to let him, if only to give the pack a break from the blonde’s incessant whining and the distinctive signs of preheat obsession.

Isaac had stopped taking his suppressants. Apparently, Scott knew this and the two of them hadn’t thought to warn anyone. Ergo: Peter was making another trip to San Diego to deal with sudden omega shenanigans.

“How much further?” Isaac demanded, bouncing in his seat.

“About ten minutes less than the last time you asked,” Malia griped, shooting him a disgusted sneer.

“Now, now,” Laura chided her from the relative safety of the front passenger’s seat. “It’s not every day our precious Isaac gets mated!”

Isaac beamed. The car was flooded with omega sex pheromones. This time, no one even grumbled, they all just rolled down their windows; there was no risk of Isaac getting jumped when they were going seventy down the highway, after all.

“I’m going to kill you.” Malia told Isaac as she stuck her nose out the window.

Well, Peter thought, _almost_ no one grumbled.

“One more hour,” he said aloud instead, “Two tops, and we’re free of him, pup.”

Neither Isaac nor Malia deigned to acknowledge this comment.

It was a long ride, made only longer now that Malia was in the same car as Isaac. She’d switched cars with Erica at the last rest stop, and Peter doubted her mood would improve with longer exposure to Isaac’s cheery and preheat-addled excitement. She’d been prickly ever since Peter refused to sign her so-called contract without further discussion.

Fortunately, they made it to San Diego without fanfare, and little bickering.

Once they hit the residential streets and had to slow down, Peter made them roll up the windows. It was unlikely Isaac’s scent would drive human alphas to doing anything stupid, but in Peter’s experience it was best not to put one’s faith in the collective self-control of strangers, intelligent or otherwise. They pulled up to McCall’s Duplex without any trouble beyond the cloying cloud of Isaac’s musk filling up the car.

Scott and Jordan were waiting at the curb for them. Along with Deaton, Lydia, and an unfamiliar woman in a business suit.

Peter parked, and Isaac sprang free of the car directly into Scott’s open arms.

“Ugh,” Malia groaned, leaping out in the opposite direction to escape the other omega’s musk.

“Keep it PG on the street, Isaac,” Peter called as he helped Laura and Jordan unload Isaac’s luggage from the trunk.

Isaac didn’t seem to hear him over the sound of his own panting into Scott’s ear.

“My, someone’s close,” the unfamiliar woman said, eyeing Isaac concernedly.

Lydia glared at her, and her words were clipped as she said: “Why so surprised? You’re the one who told us Scott needed someone ready to breed,”

“Ah,” Peter flung a bag onto the lawn beside the woman and gave her a tight smile, “You must be McCall’s emissary. The one who refused to train Stiles, hm?”

“That’s the one,” Stiles chirped as he came readily to Peter’s side.

“To be fair,” Lydia admitted begrudgingly, “Mother dearest was merely enforcing pre-existing Council law,”

Peter did a subtle double take, only then noticing the gentle similarities between the two women’s features. Mrs. Martin noticed. She held out a hand to Peter.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Alpha Hale. I’m Lydia’s mother, and a good friend of the pack’s,”

“Not that good,” Stiles muttered.

Lydia and her mother rolled their eyes, lips pursed in identical expressions of exasperation.

“We’re all friends here,” Deaton cut in smartly, “Natalie and I are here to bear witness and ensure the validity of Scott’s claim on his omega, nothing more and nothing less. There’s no need for hostility,” he said this last with a pointed look at Stiles.

“We don’t even need to stay for any celebrations,” Natalie Martin assured, and the hurt tightness around her eyes caught Peter by surprise. He wasn’t used to Council members who genuinely and fully cared for the packs they were charged with managing. Chris Argent had been the only exception to date.

As if to drive the point home, Lydia grasped her mother’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You can stay for dinner,” Scott said, addressing Natalie first, then shooting Deaton a side-eye, “Provided you leave the Council bullshit at the door once the official part’s out of the way.”

Deaton’s sharp eyes skimmed over Peter and Stiles, then Laura, for the briefest moment before he answered. “I’d rather not overstay my welcome. Perhaps another time, Alpha McCall,”

As he spoke, Derek’s Camaro pulled up behind Peter’s car and the rest of the pack spilled out onto the lawn. As if this were their cue, Scott’s betas came racing out of the house, tripping over each other in a mad dash to greet the visiting pack. There was a good fifteen minutes of pure chaos as exuberant and unorganized introductions were made.

Peter enjoyed the look of dismay on Natalie Martin’s face as the wolves clamored around her. It was almost as satisfying as Deaton’s resignation and the way he cloaked himself in forced patience like it were a literal garment he could hide behind.

Deaton met his evil grin with a bland look, with equally bland tone as he said: “I’m glad you’re enjoying this, Peter.”

Peter was still trying to decide if Deaton was being sarcastic or not when a blue sedan parked across the street and Chris and Alison Argent joined the throng of werewolves on the Duplex lawn.

“You’re Isaac!?” Alison cried, going bug-eyed and pink cheeked as she eyed the omega. “Scott, McCall, you lucky dog!”

This exclamation proved ideal fodder for the out-of-control congregation of young wolves. Taunts and friendly jibes filled the air, till Peter’s ears were ringing. The Beacon Hills pack could get plenty rowdy at times, but they were more remotely located and not as used to constant noise of a crowded city.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Derek wincing right up until Chris showed up to put his palms over the omega’s sensitive ears. Derek turned into Chris’ chest with a carefully stoic expression. Peter was certain the ears under Chris’ hands were flaming red.

The commotion finally calmed down when another car drove up, this one baring a Lyft sticker on its windshield.

Malia stiffened. “Son of a bitch,”

“You’re welcome,” Peter told her, stretching out a foot so he could literally kick her toward the car.

She glared at him. “You didn’t think to tell me he was coming?”

“Didn’t I?” He countered, innocently tilting his head in thought.

“Who is that?” Stiles asked, watched like everyone else as Malia thanked the driver for opening the rear door and awkwardly offered Deucalion her arm.

“Malia’s date,” Laura explained.

“Deucalion!?” Chris called over everyone’s heads. “Long time, no see,”

“Hilarious and dim-witted as ever, Argent,” Deucalion countered, without missing a beat.

Derek frowned at this, and it was only because he was so close by that Peter caught him muttering to himself defensively, “…I don’t think you’re dim-witted…”

“Welcome to San Diego, Alpha Deucalion,” Scott bounced forward, a clinging Isaac along at his side, to formally greet the visiting Pack Leader.

Deucalion, being both older, more experienced, and significantly less inclined to waste time and breath on pointless niceties, barely gasped Scott’s hand before dropping it in favor of placing said palm on Malia’s forearm.

“We’ve met well enough on the phone, I should think, Scott. No need for pretense on my account.” 

“Fair enough,” Scott agreed readily, waving for Malia to lead the blind alpha up the walkway.

“In that case,” Stiles crowed happily. He clapped his hands once, loud and obnoxiously. “Let’s get this show on the road, yeah?”

“Preferably before Isaac goes into heat and climbs Scott like a tree,” Malia added snidely.

No one argued that, though several people laughed.

The Duplex had a decent sized back yard after the dividing wall for the two units had been removed. It was little more than a strip of grass that ran the length of the joined homes, but the grass was lush enough, given the season, and neatly kept. Jordan and Kira had fixed it up with garlands and DIY firepit that made for a more than decent backdrop in the chilly January air. With the entirety of the local pack plus the visiting wolves, it filled up quickly.

Despite the limited space, the two packs parted comfortably enough around the fire pit and the circle of ivy and rose petals before it. There were no seats, no designated sides for each pack, and no pulpit. This wasn’t a marriage, but a mating.

Scott and Isaac hopped into the rose circle with giddy grins and pink cheeks.

Peter casually patted Stiles’ ass on his way forward, making his omega utter a hushed swear and give his own pretty blush. But then it was time to put Stiles out of the front of his mind and focus his attention on Isaac.

“Ready, omega?” He asked, wagging his eyebrows teasingly.

Isaac winced, like Peter was embarrassing him. Not enough to dampen the scent of expectation coming off his skin though. “Come on!” he whined, gripping Scott’s hand and shaking it pointedly, “Let’s do this thing!”

Scott laughed, “You heard him. Let’s do this!”

Deaton appeared at Peter’s side then, holding an opened silk bag out expectantly. “By your leave, Alpha Hale,”

Peter gave a put-upon sigh, just for show, and shoved his hand into the bag. Cool, smooth grains of sand flowed around his fingers, but he did his best to contain a fistful for the mixed minerals and herbs as he pulled his hand out. He met Isaac’s eye, trying to convey happiness and pride with more honesty than he’d typically show in public.

Isaac’s eyes gleamed, fever bright and so very, very joyful. He nodded.

Without further ado, Peter threw his handful of sand over the omega and his chosen alpha. He gave them his blessing, and the minerals settled in Isaac’s hair, rolling on his skin and catching in his eyelashes, Peter felt the pack bond to his omega—no, _this_ omega, shiver and fade away.

The vivid flush on Isaac’s face drained away, and for a moment he looked stricken.

“Time to move on, pup,” Peter told him, holding Isaac’s gaze with a fond, patient smile.

Eyes shining wetly, Isaac nodded again. Then he turned to his new alpha for comfort, and Scott welcomed him into his arms readily.

Peter stepped backward, done with his part and ready to fade into the crowd just as his bond to Isaac had faded, so terrifyingly easily, into nothing. He kept moving till someone stopped him, his back coming in full contact with another body.

Then Stiles’ arms snaked around his waist and the omega’s smiling face was rubbing its own tears away on the back of Peter’s shirt. Of course. Stiles and his spark. He would have felt the magic of the pack bond breaking even if he hadn’t been subconsciously empathizing with Peter.

As Natale and Deaton took places on either side of the circle, Peter grasped Stiles’ wrist where the boy’s hands hand interlocked over Peter’s stomach. He squeezed, and instantly felt Stiles relax against his back.

“With the magic and authority of the Council,” Natalie intoned, uncapping a small mountain ash box as Deaton mirrored her with his own, “We bless this mating, and welcome omega Isaac Lahey into the Pack,”

As if they shared a single mind, the two druids held out the boxes and tilted them till glittering silver and grey dust began to trickle onto the ground, directly overlapping the rose and ivy. Slowly, deliberately, the druids began to walk clockwise, tracing the circle with their herbs until they’d each traveled exactly half of the perimeter.

The dust circle closed with a snap of magic that Peter felt reverberate through the air. Inside it, the two wolves trembled.

Isaac whimpered holding onto Scott almost desperately.

Scott didn’t need any more encouragement than that. Instinctively, he gripped Isaac’s nape and forced the omega to bare his neck. If it had been warmer, Isaac might have saved himself a Henley and gone bare chested for this, but as it was Scott’s teeth tore clear through the fabric without care. He bit deep into the sweet spot: high on Isaac’s shoulder and low enough on the neck to be visible while steering clear of major arteries or tendons.

The relief on Isaac’s face, the way his body stopped shaking and went utterly lax, was all the assurance anyone needed to know the mating bite was successful.

Isaac belonged to Scott now.

A loud, victorious howl tore through the cool, early evening air. It wasn’t a voice Peter recognized, young Liam, he thought. It didn’t matter.

As one, every wolf present lifted their voices in celebration. Everyone except Scott and Isaac.

As Scott’s tongue lapped up the spilt blood, Isaac’s blush came back with a vengeance. Hi eyes went wide and feverish as he leaned into his alpha and his needy whine nearly went unheard in the surrounding noise. As the howl finally died down, they could hear Scott growling encouragingly as he hiked Isaac’s long legs up around his waist.

“Nice,” Hayden jeered.

Isaac was unmistakably in heat now, that was for sure. Somewhat more surprisingly, Scott seemed close to following him into a rut.

“Good God,” Deucalion sneered, “Get that omega to a room, Scott,”

Several persons voiced their agreement, even as Natalie hustled to break the three-fold circle of ash, ivy and rose petals trapping the pair.

Scott nearly knocked the woman on her ass in his haste to carry Isaac off to his bedroom. The laughter and cheers of the two packs chased after them.

The catcalls and general ruckus lasted till every wolf ear caught the sound of Pack Alpha’s soundproofed door slamming shut and locking. Only then did anyone make a move toward the house.

A sharp whistled shut them up as Lydia put herself between Jordan and the door.

“Here’s the deal,” she said in a tone that brokered no argument. She pointed at the backdoor behind her, leading to the main unit, “This way contains food, that way,” she pointed at the door leading to Liam’s and Hayden’s side, “has drinks, both alcoholic and wolvesbane variety, along with a guest book. If you’re drinking my booze, you better be signing something profound in that book.”

She turned on one crisp stiletto heel and led the way inside.

With that, Lydia Martin let the wolves loose and quite effectively made Peter’s life twenty times harder.

Peter had been braced for inebriation, of his pack and even a little of his indulgence. He had not, in fact, been braced for an inebriated Stiles. Nor had he been prepared for an unknown Council member to be in attendance after Isaac made off with his new mate. 

For that matter, Peter may have seriously underestimated Derek and Malia as well. Or Chris and Deucalion. Same difference, really. Technically speaking, neither couple could be in a room together without Peter being present. Certainly not with a goddamn Council member watching.

All he knew for certain was that in one fell swoop he’d managed to resolve one Omega Situation and simultaneously make the other three so much more demanding, at least for the present moment.

Fortunately, Chris was by now as invested as Peter himself. He was surprisingly adept at smoothly and unassumingly keeping himself or Derek well within Peter’s sight at all times. The farthest they’d gone was the back door step since Peter had claimed the reclining chair in the corner of Scott’s living room.

More surprisingly still, was Deucalion. The whole reason Peter had chosen that seat was because Deucalion had settled into the far right of the couch at his earliest convenience, and he’d made no indication he was likely to move. Peter honestly had no idea if he really was taking pity on him by intentionally ensuring Peter could chaperone with minimal divided efforts.

It was entirely possible that Deucalion was simply trying to aggravate Malia into giving up her pursuit of him.

“Would you mind getting me another glass, Malia?”

“Sure,” Malia said agreed, gritting her teeth, “But I might I dump it over your head when I get back,”

“Why?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice, “I’ve merely requested you replace the one you stole from me in the first place,”

“I didn’t steal it,” she assured him, “I poured it in the first place, and then didn’t let it go to waste while you let the ice melt so you and Peter could play catch up like a pair a old crones,”

Despite the entirely valid, if harshly worded arguing, Malia continued to convey drinks and food from the kitchen and secondary unit the rest of the evening. She made it clear each time that it was only acceptable because he was blind, and she hadn’t had to cook or organize a damn thing, both of which were comments Deucalion didn’t seem at all perturbed by.

She even stole Deucalion’s walking stick at one point, smirking when he didn’t seem to notice, and used it’s engraved edge to stamp his name on Lydia’s ridiculous guestbook. He only noticed when he had to use the cane to find the bathroom, and got ink on his fingers.

The fact she’d successfully pulled that one over on him seemed to inordinately please them both.

Still, as good as those two seem to be doing, Peter found it hard to relax.

Peter had refused to touch a glass of anything with wolvesbane in it from the moment he realized Natalie was sticking around beyond the ceremony. Unfortunately, Stiles had no such compunctions about letting loose in front of her.

“Hi, alpha,” Stiles giggled as he draped himself on the armrest of Peter’s chair.

They were well into the evening by this point, and Stiles’ underaged ass was decidedly beyond tipsy. Something sugary and alcoholic wafted off his breath, and any other time Peter might have happily licked a taste off his lips. Unfortunately, he was painfully aware of Natalie Martin sitting across the way, chatting with Alison and Erica.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Peter acknowledged, scooting over to let Stiles slid into the chair beside him.

The omega frowned, a cute little pout really, as he realized he was not in Peter’s lap as he’d clearly intended to be. “Wait. This isn’t… right,”

Peter patted his knee affectionately. “All in good time, darling,”

Stiles seemed to take this in stride. He shrugged his pouting off and nuzzled his way across Peter’s shoulder, tickling the hollow of his throat with his breath.

Peter fought not to moan, not to drag Stiles closer and let the brat get good and comfy all over his alpha’s sadly constrained crotch. Instead, he petted Stiles’ arm affectionately and pulled him off.

Stiles groaned frustratedly. “No fair,” he grumbled, and Peter was pleased to see those amber eyes glaring in Natalie’s direction rather than his own.

“Life rarely is,” Peter agreed.

Beside him, Deucalion snorted. Possibly, it was a noise of agreement, but Peter thought it was more like disdain for having to listen to another “sopping alpha-omega flirtation.”

Natalie seemed reasonably engrossed in whatever Erica was saying, so Peter ignored Deucalion and took the opportunity to lean in and kiss Stiles’ cheek, inhaling his sweet scent almost obscenely. When he glanced up again, the druid’s attention was still trained on Erica. Peter considered giving Stiles’ thigh a nice, teasing squeeze while the opportunity presented itself.

Then he heard Erica drop his name.

“—Peter would let him,” she was saying.

All of Peter’s senses snapped to attention, and he took note of Natalie’s furrowed brow and serious expression and she seemed to consider whatever the hell Erica had just said about him. It occurred to him then, belatedly, that Natalie Martin wasn’t merely Scott’s emissary; she was a long-standing figure in Stiles’ life, a self-proclaimed friend, and at minimum the mother of one of his nearest and dearest friends. She was also seated on the Council.

“To be fair,” Erica continued talking, “I think we all knew pretty quickly that Isaac would be the first to go, even before we met Scott.”

Natalie hummed, considerately, “That’s good, at least. Isaac certainly did seem eager. It does show that sometimes The Council knows what they’re talking about,”

This woman could ruin this for him, Peter thought, if she got it in her head that he didn’t deserve Stiles. Hand-written mating contract or not, Natalie Martin was a potentially lethal threat. Well, maybe not _lethal_ , but grave.

Peter had doubted he’d ever find an omega he truly wanted, and then fate had all put thrown Stiles in his path. They were so well suited. He didn’t want anyone else.

Very grave, indeed. Perhaps lethal too, in a fashion. 

“Just how well do you know Mrs. Martin, dearest?” Peter asked casually.

Stiles shrugged. “Pretty well, I guess. I spent a lot of time with her and Lyds after my mom died,”

If anything could have torn his attention from Natalie, that was it. Risks be damned, Peter’s arms wrapped around the omega the instant the sour hints of old grief began to taint his boy’s sweetness.

Under his breath and too low for Stiles to hear, Deucalion tsked, “Brava, Peter. Very smooth,”

“Good to know,” he said, carrying on like there was no hint of aged sorrow and needed comfort being exchanged, like Deucalion’s sneaky comment didn’t make him want to snarl at the other alpha in defense of his claim on the omega in his arms. “I’m sure she’ll be attending our mating too then, won’t she?”

Stiles’ smile was genuine, but small. “Probably. I know I won’t need her there, or even Scott for that matter, but—”

“Of course you’ll need them,” Peter corrected flippantly, “They’re your pack.”

Stiles looked startled at this ascertain. “Well, yeah, but… I’m not a wolf. I don’t share a pack bond with Scott.”

Deucalion groaned, as if in pain. “Peter. I thought you said this one was smart,”

Peter kicked the blind wolf in the shin. Deucalion almost managed to dodge it, so it probably barely bruised instead of fractioning blow it had been intended as.

At the same time, Peter leveled Stiles with a pointed look, admittedly unimpressed with such uncharacteristic idiocy from his omega.

Stiles flushed, then clarified irritably for both of them: “Not like what you had with Isaac. Or still do with Derek or the rest of your pack.”

Peter just kept staring and waited for Stiles to realize how absurdly he was framing his connection to his family. His pack.

“It’s not the same,” Stiles insisted.

“No,” Deucalion agreed, tone long suffering, “But neither is it so unimportant as you’re making it out to be,”

Peter knew better than to bludgeon Stiles with a direct and immediate dismissal. He was, ultimately, far too smart of that.

Peter switched tactics. “Is that how you’ll think of yourself once you’re brought into my pack?”

Stiles frowned in thought. “… No? No. It’s not the same. I’ll be your mate,”

“You’ll still be human,” Peter countered.

“You still won’t experience the pack bonds the exact way wolves do.” Deucalion added. “Or evening the mating bond,”

“Especially the mating bond,” Peter continued. “By that thinking, we’d have to consider our bond less than what Scott and Isaac have. So would Chris and Derek when their time comes.”

This didn’t sit well with the omega. He pulled away, thoughtful frown deepening as he tried to find a rebuttal that made sense with his determination that his existing pack bonds were inconsequential.

Peter let him go and tried to give him the space to work it out.

He watched the expression on his boy’s face, the telling twitch of his upturned nose, the unconscious chewing of his inner lip. As always, Peter wondered at how delightfully entertaining it was to watch the boy _think_. He figured whatever was spinning around in Stiles’ head was probably going well, right up until a burst of dejection and frustration leaked into his scent.

“Oh honestly,” Deucalion huffed impatiently, “It’s not that complicated. Your humanity makes your part in a pack unique, not lesser. Rest assured, boy, Scott will certainly have to break his ties to you and you’ll be as stupidly desperate as every omega before or since to fill the void with a properly duped mate.”

Stiles and Peter stared at Deucalion, the former startled and the later irritated.

Any further reaction was curtailed, however, because Malia had made her way back to this side of the duplex with another drink, and she’d heard at least part of Deucalion’s so-called reassurances.

She dumped the drink over his head and calmly turned to go refill the glass.


	14. Fourteen

The Hale pack house was strangely subdued for a while after Isaac left them. Each in their own way struggled with the full impact of one of their own leaving them, no matter that it had been a happy and beneficial change for Isaac. Peter and Laura, as the Pack Leaders, were the only ones who could fully feel the absence of Isaac’s presence in the magic of the pack bonds, but it rankled the others to varying degrees.

Derek turned inward, reclusive as ever and licking the metaphorical wound. Isaac had become pack only because Derek had noticed the bruises on the shy boy at school, and after Isaac’s father broke his arm Derek had dragged him home to Peter, silently demanding something be done about it. Derek was no alpha, but he’d felt responsible to some degree for Isaac ever since.

Now Isaac was gone. And with his leaving, came the profound appreciation that it would soon be Derek’s turn, and Malia’s.

A solid month after Isaac moved out, Chris moved in. It was a temporary measure he and Peter had decided on after too many evening calls when Derek refused to speak a word. Chris took a few days to handle his apartment in San Diego, and by Valentines Day he was settles in one of the spar bedrooms.

Isaac’s room was being cleaned out with no defined purpose for reuse. Laura mentioned once that it’d make a perfect nursery, but no one dared acknowledge that particular elephant, not then nor since.

Peter thought about it though. He thought about it a lot. With varying degrees of terror.

“I’m buying a house,”

“Thank God,” Peter groaned, happy for such a distraction from his own thoughts.

“Yeah? That quick to get me out of here, huh?” Chris asked wryly as he dropped into the recliner in the corner of Peter’s office. “I’ve barely been here two weeks. I think I’m insulted,”

Peter grinned, unrepentant, “It’s not you, it’s me,”

Chris snorted, but the humor faded fast as he gave Peter a level look.

Peter gladly gave him his undivided attention. He tried not to overthink how easy it was to address the older Hunter as if he were another of his betas.

“You found a place in Beacon Hills?”

Chris shook his head, “Not yet.”

Peter frowned. “But you’re going to?”

“Yes. I was hoping you and Derek would come tour a few properties with me.”

Ah. Peter understood the gravity in Chris’ expression now.

“When?”

Chris shrugged. “I’d like to start looking this week,”

Peter didn’t quite wince, but it was a near thing. He sighed and rubbed his temples. “I don’t know if Derek’s ready for that just yet,”

“Possibly,” Chris agreed easily enough, but he didn’t seem to think that consideration was as weighty as Peter did, “But playing it safe and moving glacially slow is how you ended up with the Council breathing down your necks in the first place,”

Peter glowered, “Give him a little more time to process Isaac’s mating, alright,”

Chris held his gaze silently, with that penetrating stare that used to tell Peter he was being read like an open book, too easily and too exposed, way back in his earliest days as a Pack Alpha. Peter, damn him, broke first and looked away.

The human’s cool, assessing stare didn’t let up for another long moment.

“We can’t push him too hard too fast,” Peter argued with the silence. “Not when he’s come so far recently.”

“He’s closing himself off to me,” Chris stated flatly, “Even having me here full time isn’t stopping the backslide. It’s time to push,”

“You’ll scare him off,”

“I don’t think so,”

“Think what you want. That doesn’t make you right,”

Chris took a moment to consider this. He crossed an ankle over his knee and stared at the wall behind Peter’s head. He gave a small nod to whatever thoughts were in his head.

Peter recognized the decisive look on the man’s face and cut him off before he could start: “We can start house hunting next week,”

“I have a showing scheduled for tomorrow afternoon,”

“Reschedule it,”

“No,”

It was infuriating. Peter wanted to growl and demand and force Chris to submit to his will as Pack Alpha. Chris just sat there, unbothered and perfectly collected. Sure. How was Peter suppose to fight that without looking like an entitled child.

When Chris met his eye again, it was with pure patience and sympathy. “I think you’re more afraid than he is.”

Peter scoffed.

“Listen,” Chris rubbed at his beard thoughtfully, “I know the others are still adjusting and you’re trying to pick up the slack, but ignoring your own grief isn’t helping anyone,”

“God, Christopher,” Peter chided, “You’re as bad as Derek with the melodrama. It’s not as if anyone’s died,”

He shrugged, “Death isn’t the only kind of loss we can experience. Isaac was yours. He was a packmate to the others, but he was _your omega_.”

“Yes,” Peter snapped. “And now he’s not. Thank you for pointing out the obvious,”

“I’m not taking Derek from you,” Chris assured him patiently, always so fucking patiently.

“I assumed not,” Peter acknowledged readily.

Chris’ smirk was ever so slightly amused, as if he thought Peter was willfully missing the point. “He needs room and opportunity to grow, not a complete break from his familial pack.”

“Which is why you’re here,” Peter summarized, perhaps a little dismissively.

Chris ignored him. “And I’m not a wolf. I’m not a Pack Leader. He still needs you and he always will.”

“I am aware. What’s your point, Christopher?”

“We need you to stop letting your emotional reaction to Isaac keep you from helping Derek,”

Peter might as well have been slapped. He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You and Derek,” Chris said flippantly, as if it were obvious, “You’ve been the cornerstone to each other’s fortitude ever since Kate dragged your pack through hell and back, I get it. But neither of you has been in survival mode for a while, and every time either of you gets hit with a loss, you just feed into each other till you stall out.”

Peter stood up, bristling as surely as if he were in wolf form with his hackles up.

Chris was unmoved. “It’s codependant as fuck, Peter. Be the Alpha and break the cycle,”

Peter was sure his eyes were glowing red with defensive anger. But even through the rage, the ball of tension in his gut was telling. Peter always had been smart, though. He didn’t—couldn’t—divest himself of the explosive fury, but he controlled it enough to keep from launching himself at Chris.

“Get out,” he growled.

The other alpha nodded, as if Peter needed the show of agreement, and got to his feet in smooth, unhurried motions. “If you won’t chaperone us tomorrow, I’m sure Laura will,”

The office door closed gently behind him as he left.

Peter realized he was growling, a low, dangerous sound that filled the room in a long and rolling rumble. He stopped. He lifted his hands from where they’d landed on the desktop when he stood, and his claws jerked out of the wood with a series of telling creaks.

Damn. He was going to need a new desk now.

Focusing on the ruined furniture allowed his anger to dissipate. It left him feeling exhausted and precariously calm.

He was still cleaning the slivers from his claws when Malia and Cora came barging through his door without knocking.

“Peter!?” They cried, Cora pleading while Malia sounded as irritated as was customary for her.

Back to business as usual, Peter hoped, and set all thoughts about what Chris had said aside for the moment.

“What’s the problem now?”

With near identical expression of frustration, the girls chimed: “Laura,”

Peter crossed his arms and stared at them expectantly.

“I got a package,” Malia grumbled, and an inexplicable pink tinge crossed her cheeks. “From Deucalion.”

“Laura opened it,” Cora complained, whining just like the baby of the family that she was, “And now she won’t let us see what it is. She won’t even give us a hint!”

Malia gave her cousin a side-eyed glare, growling possessively. “It’s _my_ package.”

Cora threw her hands up in professed innocence. “I’m just want to see! I won’t touch it, for crying out loud,”

“I don’t want you to see it!” Malia snarled, omega gold eyes flashing.

Peter put a restraining hand on her shoulder. Malia might be the omega of the two of them, but there was no doubt she unfairly outmatched the younger female.

Malia turned those heated eyes on him. “I didn’t want _Laura_ to see it!” she snarled, fangs and claws popping. Her fists clenched at released repeatedly, her shoulders up to her ears. It was the closest to stomping her foot as he’d ever seen her.

Peter dropped his hand and his upper body leaned back in surprise. He realized, bemused, that this must be Malia’s version of an epic omega tantrum. Omega stereotypes of petulance and futile, even _adorable_ , anger was a well-known element among humans and wolves alike; most omegas were relatively harmless, their mood swings and impressive tempers often paired with a complete lack of violent inclination. Peter’s own mother had been downright hilarious whenever she got so worked up.

Malia was _not_ harmless. Neither was Derek, for that matter, be even he didn’t have his cousin’s bloodlust. 

“Ok,” Peter addressed her with deliberate calm. “You’re right. She should have brought it to me so the two of us could open it together,”

Malia wasn’t interested in Council-prescribed courting rules. Fur sprouted along her jaw as she screamed, “It’s _mine_! She should have just given it to _me_!”

Cora was staring at Malia now, finally realizing how serious Malia was being about it. Peter snagged the front of the girl’s shirt and pulled her safely to his side as he took another step back, one placating hand up between himself and Malia.

“Yes, you’re absolutely right,” Peter agreed. “If you can calm down, we can go downstairs and rescue it from her. You’ll get what’s yours.”

The fur receded and Malia’s claws disappeared. Her fangs were still down though, and her eyes blazed. Still, the fact she was bothering with any degree of control was admirable.

Peter gave her a proud smile, “That’s my girl,”

She huffed and rolled her eyes.

Peter patted Cora’s shoulder and the two of them followed the omega downstairs. Malia stalked, Peter walked, and behind him Cora tiptoed within the harbor of his shadow.

They found the opened postage box on the kitchen table. Boyd stood at the breakfast bar eating a pudding cup that was comically small in his big hands, and giving the package an unreadable look. Laura was nowhere in sight.

At Peter’s questioning glance, Boyd shrugged, “We heard Malia’s pissy fit. Figured Laura better get started on that perimeter run early,”

Peter nodded, “Good idea,”

Malia had already secured her package, all sign of her rage gone. Her posture was relaxed and her expression pleased, almost downright _tickled_ , as she dug through the packing peanuts. By the time Peter reached her, she’d unearthed a sealed envelope, read it and discarded it on the table while she shoved both hands into the box. She biting her bottom lip and grinning around it.

There were no meddling Council members around, so Peter didn’t fret over his supposed chaperone role. He let her have at it, and didn’t give into the curiosity urging him to pursue the letter. If it had been a gift for Derek, Peter probably would have surveyed the contents beforehand, but Malia… Malia had an alpha’s attitude and an alpha’s sense of possession and pride. He’d give her every allowance he could.

“Am I allowed to ask what’s in there?” Peter asked casually.

Malia shot him a grin, her chin raised high. Slowly, she raised her hands to show him her bounty. In one hand, she held a sleek black tablet, still in its original packaging though the seals were already broken. The other hand held a fistful of shiny and slender documents. Peter thought recognized a map with Los Angelus printed on its front fold, and one of the trifold pamphlets had the distinct feeling of university brochure.

“May I?” Peter asked, pointing at the letter.

Malia nodded, her attention already absorbed by the stack information in her hands.

Peter unfolded the letter to find a Deucalion had craftily printed the letter in a font that mimicked a graceful, though large and easily decipherable cursive penmanship. He wondered briefly if he’d needed someone to assist him with the visual element of the letter. Maybe he’d even dictated the entire thing. Who knew.

_Miss Malia Hale,_

_I have had time to think over your alpha’s proposal, and I have come to believe our potential mating may be within our joint and individual best interests. I require the appearance of further respectability in order to recover my pack’s former might; you, I believe, require such a pack who’s making is well within your power. I believe our goals are very much compatible._

_To that end, I would like to prove my intentions by providing you the tools you will need to adequately assist me in this venture. At my behest, my emissary has gathered all related material regarding my territory, its supernatural and geographical elements, as well as relevant options you may select for the betterment of our future pack property._

_If you find any information lacking, or any consideration not fully explored, you may contact my official emissary, Marin Morrell directly. Once we are mated, I imagine we will both be glad to cut the middleman from such discussions._

_Despite my personal dismissal of the omega gender, I will admit to finding your company refreshingly unexpected. I will not promise anything so inane as a love affair, but I can guarantee you my respect and appreciation as a partner._

_I hope you find this and my gift agreeable._

_Sincerely,_

_Deucalion_

“How romantic,” Peter said mildly.

“Holy shit,” Malia gaped, ignoring him. Her eyes were glued to the inside of a paper insert, bracing it on top of the tablet, “He’s already downloaded the dossier on known LA supernaturals on here, and I have his password to the Council’s registry of lone wolves on the West Coast.”

Peter’s left eyebrow rose, impressed. “I wonder if Marin knows he did that,”

Generally speaking, only Pack Leaders were allowed access to the meticulous records the Council maintained on unattached and/or uncontrolled werewolves. Malia, as an omega, would probably never be granted her own username and password to that databank.

“I’m going to mate him,” Malia announced, utterly cool and certain. “I’m going to mate him so hard,”

Cora gaped at her.

Coming to stand beside her, Boyd closed Cora’s mouth with a single finger pushing her chin up. He nodded over his pudding cup at the table. “So this is what does it for you? Dossiers and territory maps,”

“Don’t forget the figurative middle finger to the Council,” Peter added.

Malia pointed at him without lifted her eyes from the insert. “That. Yes.”

“Cool.” Boyd accepted easily.

Peter shrugged. “Cool.”

Malia looked up at that, shooting him a suspicious glare. “Yeah? Just like that?”

Peter wagged his fingers at the paper in her hand, “If he’s risking his standing with the Council to throw you that bone, my prior arguments for caution are practically null and void.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Really? Just like that?”

“He still wants you after you poured bourbon over his head and stole his means of independent movement,” Peter reminded her. “And you still want him after dealing with his attitude an entire evening.”

She hummed in consideration and returned to her tablet.

“Also, if you two rip each other to shreds after a month,” Peter added helpfully, “I won’t be blamed. You deserve each other,”

She snorted and scooped her up things, box and all, leaving Peter and his betas in her wake.

Something about the symbolism of that hit Peter right in the gut. He recalled Chris’ words, about his loss and how he wouldn’t lose Derek like he had Isaac. It wouldn’t be the same, maybe, but Peter felt suddenly certain that Christopher was full of shit. Derek was leaving to make his own home, one way or another, pack or not. Peter would lose him.

He was already losing Malia too, wasn’t he.

Malia wasn’t his baby girl, she never had been. She’d come into his life too young, when he’d been stupid and restless and uncaring of much. He’d been untried, before everything, and his relationship with Malia had been devalued by both of them as a result.

Then Peter had become a Pack Alpha, and the entire world changed.

She was his, just like Laura, and Derek. Cora. Isaac. Boyd. Erica. She was his in a way that superseded whatever microscopic link lay in their DNA. She was his pack, and for the past few months, his omega.

But not for much longer.

“I need a nap,” Peter announced to no one in particular.

Cora and Boyd looked at him with similarly perplexed expression.

Boyd’s nose twitched, and he frowned.

Cora looked between them in confusion, like she’d missed a key point in conversation. She sniffed overtly in Peter’s direction and wondered aloud, “You smell…?”

“Exhausted,” Boyd provided for her, eyeing Peter concernedly. His expression asked without words if Peter was okay.

“Yeah,” he sighed and nodded in answer, heading for the stairs, “I’m going to take nap. Come get me if the house is on fire.”

Peter didn’t sleep, though.

An hour later, he sat up in his bed and gave it up as a bad job. He felt hollowed out and irritable, and no amount of tossing and turning and rolling his shoulders would make his body relax.

His phone buzzed with an incoming text.

Peter nearly ignored it. He snatched up the device and even pulled his arm back to launch it across the room just to see if it’d make him feel better. But he caught sight of Isaac’s name in bold above a goofy, wild-eyed emoji next to the words: ‘ _Shhh, Scotty doesn’t know._ ’

Peter chose not to chuck the phone. He was immediately distracted by wondering what on earth Isaac meant by that.

Before he could finish unlocking his phone to respond, a second text from Isaac came in. ‘ _You owe me, Hale_ ’ popped onto his screen, closely followed by the auto-alert that a photo had been received.

He was tired, and the afternoon and Chris fucking Argent had effectively plowed him over. His mind wasn’t exactly in its typical fighting form at the moment. It was a valid and flimsy excuse just the same.

He should have been prepared for omega shenanigans.

Truly, he should have learned by now. Peter Hale had a lousy understanding of the inner workings of omega minds. They were infuriating little things with an unerring ability to throw Peter under the bus at every turn. Even Derek, and he’d spent longer than most suppressing his omega tendencies so effectively that Peter had thought he fully understood his nephew. Yet every last omega he knew kept shocking him one way or another lately.

If the last few months had taught him nothing, it was that omegas were trouble.

Even Isaac. Sweet, bashful, quietly sarcastic Isaac with his surprising wealth of romantic tendencies.

There was nothing sweet and barely romantic about the photo Peter opened on his phone.

It was Stiles, the biggest omega trouble of them all. All at once, Peter’s vision was filled with long, slender, gloriously bare legs and so much skin, skin so white and decorated with moles, and a plump ass made for holding and—

Peter dropped his phone.

He sat there quietly for a moment, processing.

Stiles hadn’t been naked in the picture. It was a totally unassuming, candid shot, one Isaac had taken likely without warning from some lower vantage point while Stiles dressed. There were perfectly ordinary briefs hugging that surprisingly full backside, and part of his torso and arms were obscured by the shirt he was just beginning to slid into. Or maybe out of. Peter honestly hadn’t looked close enough before letting the phone fall from numb fingers. It hadn’t even been particularly pornographic.

Peter’s erection disagreed.

He wanted to scream. And not altogether in a good way.

He honestly couldn’t remember a time, ever, not once, before that moment when he’d ever been so aroused and simultaneously so dejected. He honestly wasn’t sure what he, his wolf mind, hell, his _human_ mind, and his body wanted to do most. Fuck? Cry? Go rampaging through the forest?

He couldn’t sit back and rub one out to Stiles’ picture. He was still too tense, even mildly nauseated, from all the grief and, yes, dammit Christopher, fear of his naturally evolving pack. It wouldn’t be enjoyable. But goddamn it, his cock was hard and uncaring of that fact.

He was not about to masturbate while so much of his mind was hung up on the omegas he’d helped raise since infancy. He was _not_.

Crying, he decided. He wanted to fuck and he wanted to commit murder, yes, but mostly he felt like crying.

So naturally, he found he couldn’t do that either.

With a sigh, Peter flopped back into his pillows and asked the ceiling: “How did I get here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks. If you don't feel for Peter yet, I don't know what's wrong with you. ;)


	15. Fifteen

Despite Peter’s misgivings, Derek was perfectly okay touring homes with Chris. By mid-March they’d made a decision, and Christopher Argent bought up a comely cabin-style home and the surrounding acreage just a twenty minutes’ drive from the pack house. The interior was nothing extraordinary, though it had a nice open layout without the sort of divide between kitchen/dining area and the main living space. Chris slowly started ordering furniture the very next day, despite having no intention of living in the home full-time until Derek was ready to mate.

While they waited for that elusive day, Chris was also having the backyard trees uprooted and replaced with an in-ground pool and jacuzzi. Erica and Laura had already made a lot of noise about regularly dropping by to test the waters’ temperature for them. Peter kept his comments to himself, if not his smirk.

“It’s bigger than I expected,” Alison mused when she first saw the place.

Alison had driven the U-Haul with her dad’s things up from San Diego. Scott, Isaac, and Stiles had tagged along with her.

“I like it,” Isaac commented as he hopped up onto the large island counter that hosted the deep kitchen sink.

Derek scowled and pushed him off, “Were you raised in barn? I’ll be eating here someday.”

Erica wandered in then, Chris’ recliner balanced on her shoulders like it weighed nothing. “It is pretty big for just the two of you, though,”

Alison was careful not let Derek see the teasingly expectant smile she aimed at her father at this comment.

Chris rolled his eyes at her, already shaking his head to warn her off when—

“Who said it’d just be the two of us?”

Dead. Silence.

Peter stopped poking through Chris’ book collection to stare at Derek along with everyone else. Surely, Derek didn’t understand the full implication at hand. _Surely_.

Derek’s scowl deepened under the combined weight of all the staring. Alison, Isaac, Erica and Peter were all gaping at him. Chris was…. Well. Chris was staring, but he wasn’t wearing the same surprise or disconcertment on his face as the rest of them. He looked… thoughtful.

“Woah,” Stiles skidded to a halt just inside the door, yet another box of Chris’ belongs in his arms. He took in the scene with curious, wide eyes. “What’d I miss?”

“What happened?” Scott seconded as he nearly collided with Stiles’ back.

“Drama,” Stiles answered him when no one else did, “Apparently.”

Derek’s brow only dropped lower in a deeper irritation as he barked at them, “What!?”

“Nothing,” Isaac said hurriedly, looking pointedly in the opposite direction.

Erica, however, did not care for the subtlety or the belated attempt at tact. “Derek!?” she crowed, her shocked excitement getting the better of her, “Do you want a _baby_!?”

“Oh shit,” said Scott.

“Eep,” whispered Stiles, popping the consonant obnoxiously.

While the focus on Derek intensified, Peter looked at Chris. The other alpha’s eyes were locked on Derek, his face carefully stoic. He stood still, so very, very still, and for the first time in years Peter was starkly reminded of the lethal Hunter Chris had been back when they first met. All coiled tension, utterly controlled and ever vigilant. Hyper observant. And absolutely, ruthlessly trained on Derek.

Derek didn’t seem to notice Chris’ intense focus. He wasn’t even blushing. He just looked irritated.

“… Well?” Alison asked, not ungently, as the tense silence drew on.

Peter expected Derek to blush or growl, get defensive and storm off. He didn’t expect to get an answer of any kind, he doubted anyone did.

Instead, Derek just kept glaring at them like they were all idiots and said: “Obviously,”

Finally, Chris spoke up. “Really?”

Derek’s scowl lessened a little when he glanced over at the alpha, his answer coming out almost blasé, “Eventually, yeah.”

Peter saw the literal moment Derek’s brain caught up with reality. They all saw it. Apparently, he’d been thinking about kids for a while, years possibly, but was only just then thinking about having _Christopher’s_ kids.

“Oh. My. Gawd.” Stiles squealed quietly, looking between Chris and Derek like he was following a world class tennis tournament.

Derek turned brilliantly red, that embarrassed flush making up for it’s unexpected delay with full color and speed. Without another word, Derek walked out of the room, out of the whole damn house, steps slow and stuttering with apparent shock.

No one stopped him.

Alison turned back to her father, the expectation on her face bald and insistent this time. “Did you know you were giving me a sibling?”

Chris’ stoicism didn’t exactly crack. There was a tightening around his eyes though that made Peter wonder if Chris really had put all desire for child rearing behind him after Alison.

“Christopher?” Peter prompted, getting worried. “Do we need to talk about this?”

The other alpha rubbed at his beard in that way that indicated distracted and serious thinking was afoot. Then, the bastard lit another excited fuse under the assembled crowd and stole Derek’s line: “Eventually, yeah,”

“What the hell?” Alison cried, following him out the front door toward the U-Haul. “Dad!? What kind of answer—”

Alison’s indignant berating carried well into the afternoon. She and Scott seemed intent on annoying further explanation out of the man the entire time they helped him unpack the rest of his belongings. Stiles also threw out the occasional question or inappropriately lewd, baby-making related comment in solidarity with their efforts.

Peter didn’t bother. Christopher wouldn’t call off the mating, he was sure. He was fairly sure. Peter spent the afternoon organizing Chris’ small library on shelves and silently preparing ways to convince Chris offspring would be a non-issue. Maybe, if it was really that important to Derek, Peter could offer to let the pup live at the pack house—

“Do you want kids?”

Peter jumped.

Stiles leaned backward and blinked at him, startled by the force of Peter’s reaction to being startled first.

Peter stared at him as his heart slid down out of his throat. “Jesus, Stiles. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to sneak up on a werewolf,”

Stiles gave him a pointed once-over, “Yeah. Sure. That’s an important life lesson when you have two left feet and everyone around you has preternaturally acute hearing and sense of smell. Are you feeling okay? If you didn’t hear, feel or smell me coming—”

“I’m fine,” he assured him, slotting another book into place. “Merely distracted,”

“Yeah, I got that much,” Stiles leaned against the shelf, arms and ankles crossed in a casual stance that looked the smallest bit silly and unnatural on the omega. “That’s why I came over here. To bring your head out of the clouds.”

Peter leered at him. “Is that so? Consider my head far, far below the clouds then,”

Stiles’ cheeks went pink even as he rolled his eyes.

Peter took a deep, loud breath through his nose, closing his eyes in appreciation. Stiles always smelled good, but with the slightest inuendo he’d gone from good to simply divine.

The omega smacked his chest, and maybe those slender fingers lingered on his pectoral just a little too long.

“Where is our darling Scott, by the way?” Peter asked, catching Stiles’ hand and nipping his finger.

“Kitchen,” Stiles answered a little breathlessly, his eyes on Peter’s mouth as he rubbed at the bitten fingertip.

“Watching you like a hawk,” Scott muttered from across the large room, sounding like he was doing the exact opposite.

Stiles’ entire body shivered, shaking himself out of any sort of lustful stupor. “Which you’d know,” he chided Peter, “if you pulled your head from those clouds and paid attention to your senses,”

Peter didn’t miss a beat. “Impossible. All my senses are trained on you.”

Scott groaned, “So. Bad. Sooo bad.”

Stiles swatted him again, less flirtatious and more aggrieved. “Stop trying to distract me. Fess up, wolfman. Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

Peter smirked and hefted another volume from the box. “Tell you what?”

“Do you want kids?”

Ah. So he hadn’t misheard that after all. Peter read the title and shelved the book in the appropriate place to buy himself an extra moment. When he turned back, the omega was waiting not-so-patiently.

“Come on,” Stiles nudged his leg with one outstretched foot, “We’re a done deal anyway, remember. Complete with contractual obligation. Tell me.”

Peter took a breath. It did nothing to ease the ball of inexplicable nerves in his gut.

“Tell. Me. Wolf. Man.” Stiles repeated, jabbing his toes into Peter’s shin with each word. Then, more quickly: “Tell me. Just tell me.”

Peter sighed. “I wouldn’t be a very good father, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded, as though he expected this answer. “Yeah. I get it. But do you _want_ kids?”

“I’ll correct myself,” Peter answered, “I _am not_ a good father. Just ask Malia.”

“I heard you. I also heard you ignore my question three times now.”

Peter frowned at him, “I’m not ignoring—”

“I didn’t ask about your experience as a teenage sperm donor.” Stiles cut in, “I asked about your interest in having and raising a kid _now_. In the future, I mean. You know.” His shrug at this point was absolutely _not_ casual. “With me,”

As Stiles ducked his head shyly and looked up at him through his lashes, Peter was reminded how very young he was. Stiles’ doubts about his place in the world hadn’t the experience and time to fester and become belief as Peter’s had. He hadn’t yet resigned himself to anything without knowing he could fight it tooth and nail and come out winning; Peter could see it in his eyes, the stubborn decision to persevere no matter what might be said or done, no matter how it might directly affect his life.

He was clever, and his skin smelled like magic, and he was beautiful, and so very, very young. He was hopeful and willful.

And, above all, he was Peter’s.

For the first time, Peter didn’t think about all he was losing this year; instead, he thought solely about what he had to gain.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “Do you, Stiles?”

Stiles’ gaze hit the floor as he thought carefully about his response. His weight shifted and his head tilted just so, baring his neck. It was a perfectly natural and thoughtless show of submission, universal to man and wolf alike and it spoke to Peter on a primal level.

He could breed this boy, he realized with a start. He could breed him full and well, and while he likely would be no better a father than his history proved him to be, at least this time around he could try.

He surveyed Stiles’ lanky form, practically swimming in plaid and a loose comic tee. He couldn’t quite imagine him pregnant, but the way his hip jutted out as he leaned one shoulder on the bookcase made it easy to envision a young, paler Malia perched there. It was a nice picture.

“We could try,” he found himself saying without his usual private inspection of the thought. “If it’s important to you, we could possibly have a pup.”

The look Stiles gave him then was almost coy, “…Maybe two?”

Peter sighed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll see.”

“That’s not a no,” Stiles said, grinning.

“We’ll see,” he repeated. And goddamn it, he was smiling too.

“Derek wants BABIES!?”

Peter’s smile wilted.

Laura came bounding into the house, looking around wildly for her little brother. “Where is he?! Why am I learning about this from Isaac freaking Lahey!? How did this topic even get bought up without me around!?”

“Let’s not mention any of this to the rest of the pack,” Peter told Stiles softly as Laura stormed the house in search of answers.

Stiles’ grin turned mischievous and he leaned into Peter’s chest, those fingers practically groping his pec again, “Depends. What do I get for my silence?”

“Hmm.” Peter pretended to consider this, “My continued respect and esteem?”

“Nah-uh,” Stiles smirked and leaned heavily against him.

Peter braced to take the added weight, his arms coming up around that skinny waist. He had a good, solid moment to appreciate the slight, sinewy body hidden under all those layers of cloth. Then the omega surged up on his tip-toes, lanky form stretching against his own, and chapped lips pressed to the underside of Peter’s jaw.

“Guys!?” Scott complained, voice raised in a whine on the other side of the open layout, “Come on. Really?”

“Kiss me,” Stiles whispered, rubbing his mouth on Peter’s goatee. “Before Scott gets a better vantage point. Kiss me.”

Dangerous, Peter told himself even as he tightened his hold. This boy with his devilish words and hooded eyes was so very dangerous. Peter was going to eat him alive.

“Just one kiss,” Stiles murmured against his chin.

Peter lowered his mouth to Stiles’ ear, laying a feather-light kiss on his cheek as he went. He whispered sweetly: “No,”

“One kiss,” Stiles needled, “That’s my price.”

Peter sighed disappointedly and raised his head to look around, calling, “Laura!?”

Stiles pouted. Oh, but he pouted so prettily, Peter was tempted to bite that lower lip and be damned with the unlikelihood of Scott reporting him to Deaton for it.

“What’s up?” Laura asked, popping her head over the railing of the stairs leading to the bedrooms on the upper floor. She was such a good Second, unknowingly saving him from himself, as usual.

“Just making sure you’re not badgering Derek,” Peter called over his shoulder, then he met Stiles’ eye and murmured threateningly: “Be a good boy, and maybe I’ll make it worth your while later,”

With a solid, resounding smack to that perfect ass, Peter let go and stepped away. Stiles swayed after him, wide eyed and blushing and smelling like slick and sin.


	16. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, I am not an expert about Pagan holidays or rituals, so much of Stiles' gifts (and, in fact, ALL of the druid elements in this story) are pretty much me just BSing my way through half-remembered information from my brief Wiccan stint from years ago. The Burning Bowl is a real pagan ritual though, and is not necessarily tied to any particular deity, if you're interested you might enjoy looking up more about it. Please know that I am not, nor have I ever been, a reliable information source for that sort of thing.

Deucalion came to visit Easter weekend, and the days leading up to it were an honest-to-God mess of speculation and excitement. Half their pack seemed convinced Malia would be leaving with him the following Sunday evening. The other half was equally convinced Peter and Stiles would beat them to the mating circle when Spring Break rolled around at the end of the month.

Erica was managing a betting pool.

Hours before Deucalion’s flight landed, Peter learned Scott’s pack had gotten in it too. For reasons beyond his understanding, Kira and Liam seemed to think Stiles was likely to jump ship on the semester early for the sake of getting into Peter’s pants sooner. Peter had laughed at the absurdity of the claim, but apparently, they were fairly well convinced.

To the tune of a hundred dollars each.

Peter couldn’t stop wondering what Stiles was saying to them to run the stakes so high.

He was in the midst of daydreaming about what sort of lascivious desires Stiles might have shared lately when Deucalion and Marin wandered in.

“Afternoon, Peter,” the blind alpha said as Marin pulled out a chair across the table from Peter for him.

“Duke,” Peter said pleasantly, decidedly less so as he turned to the druid. “Marin. I don’t suppose you’re staying, are you?”

Her smile was tight and didn’t reach her eyes. “No, thank you,”

“That’s good, since I wasn’t offering an invitation,”

Deucalion laughed quietly.

Marin shot the blind man a cold and unappreciative look even as she addressed Peter. “I have other Council business that needs attending. Believe it or not, Hale, but helping your pack keep any semblance of respectable forward momentum is not on the top of my priority list,”

“Of course not,” Peter agreed smarmily, “Why would you bother when I’ve got it all under control.”

“Do you?” she said mildly, expression neutral.

“I do,” he assured, then waved his fingers at her daintily, “You’re not needed here. Shoo,”

“My, my. The sass,” Deucalion murmured, a small smirk on his face. “It’s no wonder your pack consists of such… _colorful_ personalities, Peter.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want a boring pack,” Peter acknowledged readily, watching out the front window as Marin made her way out the door and back to her rental. Good riddance.

“No, I imagine not.” A considerate look came over Deucalion’s face then, and he sounded pleasantly surprised as he continued with: “I suppose my new pack will be similarly afflicted, won’t it.”

“You’re serious about letting Malia make decisions about who you bring in?”

“Of course. A pack of alphas doesn’t work without mutual appreciation among its members. I’d have thought you’d remember that,”

Peter studied the other alpha, noting his bored tone and neutral scent. Deucalion was without pretense, truly believing every word he spoke, as if he could have the same sort of untraditional, dynamic-elitist pack he’d had back in the day if Malia was willing to work with him.

“You do realize,” he said slowly, “Malia _is_ actually an omega.”

Deucalion scoffed, “Only biologically.”

Peter mulled that one over for a moment, then shrugged. The truth was, Malia was easily ten times more vicious in a fight than most people of any gender, and he’d never met an alpha yet who could best her where cool logic was concerned. Before she’d presented, he and Laura had fully expected she’d move out young to establish her own pack or become someone’s Second.

Kali had been Deucalion’s Second in his first pack, as well as his lover. She was one of the few of his alpha-only pack who’d survived the clash with Gerard Argent, and she’d dropped Deucalion like a bad habit the moment she learned his blindness was permanent.

Malia was an omega though. She could complete a mating bond. She’d never leave him, no more than he’d be able to leave her.

Peter wondered if Deucalion’s brilliant mind had worked that one out yet, or if he even cared. Deucalion could be distant and even callus, but he wasn’t unfeeling. No Pack Leader was; a wolf simply couldn’t do the job without being emotionally and mentally invested in the wellbeing of his pack. 

Maybe Malia and Deucalion would never fall in love. Maybe they’d surprise themselves when they realized a traditional mating had more benefit than mere appearance suggested.

“The Council will never accept her as your Second, you know,” Peter reminded him solemnly.

He carefully watched the other alpha for a reaction. It was a legitimate concern, yes, and Deucalion was not the close, well-understood friend he’d been a decade ago. Mostly, Peter was intensely curious to see if Deucalion had been fully conscious of the sort of grooming he’d been doing with Malia.

The small, unbothered smile on the blind man’s face was infuriatingly uninformative. “Perhaps,”

Peter leaned forward, “You’ve thought about it?”

Even with his sunglasses in place, Deucalion’s look managed to call him an idiot.

Peter sat back, “Nevermind.”

“I swear, you used to be more observant as a foolish pup.”

“No,” Peter shook his head in refute wasted on the blind alpha, “I was never foolish,”

“You were,” Deucalion countered. “The jury’s still out on whether you still are.”

Before he could dish out a clever retort, the strong, syrupy warm scent of a carnally pleased omega wafted into the room. It caught both of them by surprise and they fell silent.

Peter was stunned. Of all the omegas in his pack, now or ever before, not even Isaac would have flaunted the scent of a fresh orgasm at a prospective mate. Good God, it was like Malia had been taking courting advice from Stiles.

That thought was… alarming. Yes. Peter was alarmed.

Across the table, Deucalion sat stiffly, his nose in the air and his disdain for all things omega crumbling around him as he realized who and what, _exactly_ , he was smelling.

Peter cleared his throat.

Deucalion remembered himself and turned that nose from the hall and toward him abruptly.

“She doesn’t… play fair,” Peter informed him awkwardly.

Behind his glasses, Deucalion’s brows nearly hit his hairline. He didn’t look upset. “Evidently,”

Malia walked into the room with a casual “Hey, Peter. Duke,” and headed straight for the fridge like everything was normal.

Peter choked on his own incredulity.

She was wearing a skirt— he didn’t think Malia even _owned_ such an article of clothing. The pleats barely reached mid-thigh, and when she propped the fridge door open with her hip the fabric helpfully swished a fresh wave of her musk throughout the room.

Peter cleared his throat again. He didn’t look at her as he surreptitiously blocked his nostrils with his finger. 

Deucalion remained a statue, brows raised and jaw tight.

“How was the flight?” Malia asked as she retrieved an orange juice bottle and nudged the fridge closed with another intentional jut of her hips.

Fucking omegas, Peter thought. Devious, evil creatures. Peter expected this kind of behavior from his own, his mate, maybe, but Malia? No. No, no, no. He didn’t know if he should be laughing or crying from scandalized amazement.

“Fine,” Deucalion said shortly.

Malia frowned at him over the rim of her Tropicana. “Yeah?”

“Yes,”

As she continued frowning, Peter decided she must be disappointed at Deucalion’s stoic reaction. Sure enough, a moment later the frown gave way to a determined set of her jaw and her eyes narrowed.

Without another word, she walked out. Malia was a born hunter, even among wolves. Her footsteps were light and silent, and it took an awkwardly long moment for Deucalion to read the fading of her scent and heartbeat as her having left the room.

He finally moved, chest rising considerably as he took a breath.

“So…” Peter began snidely. “When were you planning this mating ceremony to go down, again?”

Deucalion still seemed a little stunned as he answered, “Perhaps we should ask Malia,”

Peter tried to remember if he’d overheard her placing any bets with Erica recently. “Perhaps we should,” he agreed.

They wouldn’t get another chance for a private conversation with Malia that night, however. Laura, Derek and Boyd come back from a run through the woods soon after, and the stench of sweat and forest trampled over whatever lingered of Malia’s stunt. It was much longer beyond that before Cora made it back from the library and Erica was carting this week’s groceries in from her car. Chris made it back from micromanaging the installation of the new pool just before dinner and distracted Deucalion and Malia both with unofficial information he recalled on the lone wolves remaining in the LA region.

The pack as a whole effectively stalled all life-determining conversations for another day. Mid-morning on Easter Sunday, specifically, but it wasn’t Malia and Deucalion’s mating up for discussion.

“Surprise!”

Peter heard him before he saw him, before he smelled him even. He heard the engine of an unfamiliar car roll up outside, then squeals and cheers from Erica and Laura, and then Stiles’ voice hollering over them from the front porch.

“Hey,” Chris said, sticking his head through Peter’s open office doorway. “You’re boy’s here,”

Peter abandoned the review he’d been doing on the pack’s finances for the month to follow after the giddy chatter coming from the front of the house. He found Laura and Erica nearly suffocating Stiles between them while Derek watched from the doorway with a confused frown.

“What’s he doing here?” Derek grumbled.

Peter conveniently ignored the fact that he had no warning or clue about their new visitors. “Obviously, he’s here to see me.”

“Obviously,” Derek said, rolling his eyes.

“Obviously,” Chris agreed, his tone far less sarcastic or dry. 

Peter shot a disgruntled look at him, Derek mirroring the expression. “You knew he was coming up?”

Chris shrugged, “It was a surprise.”

“You couldn’t have warned _me_?” Derek added, just a little wounded.

“I didn’t think you’d care either way, honestly,” the alpha admitted. It was a sign of how far things had come that Chris didn’t hesitate to brush the back of one finger tenderly over Derek’s cheek in apology.

Even more impressive, the omega leaned into the touch just the smallest bit, with an equally sized huff. “Fine,” he mumbled, “I still would have liked to know.”

Peter spared a moment to appreciate the easy flow of the interaction. Derek was still stiff and awkward, but for the first time since Kate, he was slowly beginning to trust in his omega instincts again. Chris had sat the three of them down over a week ago to announce that, after careful consideration, he rather liked the idea of having kids with Derek after all, and the couple had been remarkably affectionate with one another as a result. There was none of the overt flirtation the other omegas engaged in, but the casual touching and occasional pecks to the cheek were becoming a regular thing in recent days.

But Peter had other demands for his attention than Chris and Derek’s slow-mo romance.

The driver’s door of the unfamiliar car had finally opened, and it wasn’t Scott who stepped out, but a middle-aged human alpha with the subtle hint of gunpowder and mistletoe ingrained in his scent.

“Where’s Scott?” Peter demanded, frowning as the man followed Stiles toward the porch with unhurried steps.

“Peter!?” Stiles cried happily, squirming his way out of Erica’s clinging arms.

The stranger paused with one foot on the bottom step of the porch at the sound of Peter’s hard tone, his shoulders back and his hands going to his belt in a familiar and authoritative stance…. A cop? The body language clicked together in Peter’s mind with the unusual elements in his scent.

Stiles bounced over to him, nearly sending Peter backward into Derek with the force of his lunge. “Did you miss me, alpha mine!?”

Peter braced himself just in time and his arms went up to catch the omega without thought. Naturally, Stiles took advantage and hopped up to wrap all four limbs around the alpha’s torso. And so it was that Peter met his mate’s father with the boy’s body plastered all over his own.

At least he’d kept his hands off Stiles’ ass. It was a close call.

“So you’re Peter Hale,” the man who could only have been sheriff Stilinski said, brow arched as he watched them. He sounded supremely unimpressed.

Peter held up his hands in innocence, fully willing to let the troublesome omega drop.

Those skinny thighs squeezed his waist deliciously and the minx hung off him like an octopus. A very mischievous, sweet-smelling octopus who’s half-hard cock was pressing into Peter’s abs in a _most_ distressing fashion.

“This was not my idea,” Peter professed, keeping his hands safely in the air.

A snort of amusement came from Stiles’ father. “I figured.”

Stiles’ arms loosened around his neck so he could lean back and grin at Peter, “Right, Peter meet my dad: the best sheriff to ever sheriff, Noah Stilinski. Dad, meet my wolfman, Peter Hale.” The brat took a breath and planted a kiss on Peter’s nose before whispering conspiratorially: “If you don’t help me out, I’m going to fall, and I think we all know how poorly my reflexes are up to catching me.”

Peter laced his fingers behind his head. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

“Aaaany second now,” Stiles taunted in response, leaning back just enough to not-quite fully disguise the way he pushed his groin into Peter’s stomach.

“I get the impression you might not have thought this through accurately, sweetheart,”

Stiles’ legs slipped a little. “Dude! Omega in distress here!”

“Yeah, me,” Derek snorted, turning to walk away.

“Not cool!” Stiles yelled after him, then he pouted at Peter, “You really wouldn’t catch me? Cuz this is honestly not the way I was hoping to get my ass bruised any time soon.”

Laura and Erica cackled.

“Stiles….” Noah said in that long-suffering way of a parent resigned to their lot in life.

Chris’ hand patted Peter’s shoulder twice, “Just remember, you asked for this.”

“No, but this one certainly is,” he corrected with a fond pinch to Stiles’ side

The omega squeaked and finally let him go in a crashing flail of limbs and plaid. “How rude!” he scolded as a giggling Erica helped him up off the porch.

Peter ignored him. He offered Noah his hand with a tight smile. “Welcome to Beacon Hills. If I’d known you were coming, I might have been able to avoid that.”

“Doubtful,” Noah took his hand for a perfunctory shake, “I haven’t managed to rein him in once in the nineteen years I’ve been saddled with him. Can’t imagine you’ll have much better success.”

There was a part of Peter that dearly wanted to mention the expected bruising of said omega’s backside and how it might relate to Peter’s chances. He wisely kept the comment to himself.

“I appreciate the warning,” he said instead, perfectly benign.

The way Noah snorted and gave him a once-over suggested he might have seen right through Peter’s bullshit. Regardless, he also kept any comments to himself.

“I’m Laura,” his niece stepped between them and gave the Sheriff a cheeky grin, complete with fluttering eyelashes, “the pack’s Second. It’s an honor to finally meet you, Sheriff,”

He took her offered hand, as brief and polite as he had Peter’s. He didn’t seem to notice Laura’s flirtatious smile.

“Not that we’re not glad to have you,” Peter continued as he gave Laura’s hip a warning poke with a claw, “But what exactly brings you two here so unexpectedly.”

Noah opened his mouth, but his son beat him to the answer: “I wanted you to meet my dad. I figured, yeah, okay, so we’re doing this as werewolf customs dictate and all, which means Scott’s _technically_ the only guy you have to deal with to get with this,” he gestures at the entirety of his body, “But! And I know you know this, but bear with me—but I _am_ human and have honorable intentions to marry you some day ontop of all the Council-required mating, and the Council recognizes human parental figures as acceptable chaperones anyway!

“So, yeah, it occurred to me that you should probably meet my father. You know,” his speech slowed and he shrugged, “before we do something even more irrevocable than tying the knot. Like… _tying_ … _the knot_. Get it?”

Peter reconsidered his life choices as he nodded and said patiently, “I get it,”

Beside him, Noah simultaneously sighed, “He gets it,”

“Oh!” Stiles snapped his fingers at that and skipped down the steps and nearly collided with the car in his excitement. “Also, we wanted to celebrate with you guys! We brought gifts! Hope you guys are ready for an epic Easter brunch—Stilinski Style!” 

For the better part of the next hour, Stiles seamlessly commandeered Peter’s pack. At first, he merely enlisted Laura, Erica, and Chris into unloading the car of groceries and brightly wrapped and bow-tied packages. While that was still going on, Boyd and Peter had been conscripted into setting up the kitchen to his exacting standards. Before long, Derek and Malia had begrudgingly answered the summons and were helping clean up the back yard and setting up a table and chairs, including every lawn, folding, and even two of dining room chairs.

The only person exempt from duty was Deucalion, who was all too happy to to wait out the chaos with a glass of Deaton's mead. Noah tried to help early on, but soon stashed himself next to the blind alpha in a corner where he wouldn’t get in the way of people who knew where everything was and had the superhuman senses and strength to get the jobs done.

Not much longer, and Chris joined them with a beer for both himself and the Sheriff. Hardly a minute after that, and so did Derek, grumpily hiding from Stiles and his endless list of chores in the crook of Chris’ arm.

Malia was the first person to beg off any further duties, insisting she needed a shower before sitting among civilized people for a meal. The excuse caught on with the betas like wildfire.

Which was how Stiles ended up with just Peter and Laura in the kitchen to keep him company as he finished up, pulling the yams out of the oven and scampering across the kitchen to throw paprika on a tray of boiled eggs in an imitation of Salt Bae.

Peter could only stare and take deep breaths of warm air, good food and contented omega.

“How,” Laura whispered in awe, sounding similarly dazed. “How did he get all this done in under an hour? There’s so much _food_ ,”

And there was. Stiles clearly had experience cooking for a pack of wolves, and he’d come prepared with as much pre-cooked as was possible. It smelled heavenly.

“Here,” Stiles said, racing over with something dark red and bubbly and on spoon. “Try this.”

Without questioning it, Peter opened his mouth and let the omega feed him. Something zesty and sweet hit his tongue with just a bit of bite at the end, and Peter moaned.

“That good, huh?” Stiles wagged his eyes brows.

Peter held Stiles’ gaze as he wiped a thumb over his own lip and growled, “Yes,”

Oh joy, and now there was the smell of slick making the olfactory mosaic in the room that much better.

From the dining table, Deucalion cleared his throat loudly while Chris and Laura laughed. Noah shook his head, sighing heavily in a way that was quickly becoming familiar. Derek merely sighed and rubbed his nose into Chris’ shoulder.

“Stilinski Secret Cranberry Sauce,” Stiles touted proudly as he stubbornly ignored the heat coloring his face. “Now all of you get off your lazy rears and help me get all this out back.”

And like the good, hungry minions they were, they did.

Predictably, Boyd was the first of the betas to make his way back downstairs for food, though the girls were quick to follow.

“Thanks, man,” Boyd told Stiles earnestly as he heaped a pile of corn pudding onto his plate.

“This smells amazing,” Laura commented, then moaned almost indecently as she took a bite of ham and cranberry sauce. “My God, it tastes even better!”

“Course it does,” Noah preened with second hand pride, “Stiles made it,”

“Seriously though!” Erica gushed over her own plate, “I can’t remember the last time we had such a good meal at home.”

“Never,” Boyd supplied between bites.

There was general noise of agreement all around the table.

Stiles nodded his head, and his eyes were trained safely on his own plate as he admitted, “Yeah. I know. Isaac told me.”

Derek peered around Chris to look at the other omega shrewdly. “What else did he tell you?”

Stiles poked at his ham and Peter caught a whiff of something sad and wistful before he spoke, “Just that you guys haven’t had any of the traditional meals in recent years. The pack hasn’t anyway.”

“Ah,” Peter realized as Derek stiffened. “Yes. The last Hale Pack member who knew how to pull out all the stops for a holiday meal like this would have been my sister, Talia,”

On the far side of the table, Cora went still, forkful of yams half way to her mouth.

“She used to make mashed potatoes for Easter, though,” Laura chimed in cheerfully, “even though no one ever ate them.”

“I prefer the yams,” Cora agreed, raising her fork as proof before shoving it into her mouth. No one argued that she had been too young to remember what Talia’s potatoes might have tasted like.

“That’s not true,” Derek said seriously after a moment, “Dad ate them, once.”

Peter shared a questioning glance with Laura, this moment in time missing from his memories. Talia’s holiday potatoes had been a traditional gag since before Derek was born. He would have remembered—

“Oh!” Comprehension dawned on Laura’s face and she turned scarlet as a hand clapped over her mouth. “The year he had milk!”

This surprised a laugh from Peter.

Derek looked unreasonably proud of himself as he returned to his food. “Told you so,”

“I’m missing something,” Chris commented.

“Be glad,” Laura snickered. “It was bad,”

“So bad,”

“What was!?” Cora asked, brandishing her fork at her brother, “What was bad, Derek?”

“Mom and Dad had a fight about something,” Derek waved his hand in a dismissal gesture, “Easter morning,”

“You were barely two at the time,” Peter told her, “Just know, it was a fight _years_ in the making. Mostly about your father’s leniency about letting you kids eat whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted—"

“But superficially,” Laura interjected with a fond grin, “it was about the damn potatoes,”

“Those damn potatoes,” Derek murmured, shaking his head sorrowfully. There truly was some sadness in his scent, but the sadness of an ancient, familiar grief, tempered by a fair amount of relief and amusement. 

“So dad,” Laura’s words cut off with unbeatable laughter, “Dad! He…he!”

“He poured himself a glass of milk to have with Easter dinner,” Peter took over as Laura succumbed to giggles. “He made a point to take a serving of potatoes, and when Talia was focused trying to hand feed you—”

“He put them in the milk!” Laura cackled.

“Almost got away with it too,” Derek commented, the smallest of smiles on his face.

Laura was turning red from laughter, and Peter found himself shaking with mirth as he remembered Talia’s expression when she’d seen her mate’s plate clear of white lumpy stuff.

“Then mom just… she stares him dead in the eye and… just totally deadpan… says: Don’t forget to… to…!”

Peter collected himself and took pity on Laura, “ _Don’t forget to drink your milk, dear_ ,”

As laughter broke out across the table, Peter surreptitiously wiped at his eyes. He hadn’t heard Laura or Derek talk about their parents without screaming or crying years, not since their deaths. In the same vein, he was all too aware that he’d never managed to give his pack the sort of full, traditional holiday meal they were currently enjoying. He looked around the table, and while it hurt to realize Isaac wasn’t there, the pain was nothing to the relief and pleasure at seeing Malia stuffing her face with unbridled enthusiasm as Laura, Derek and Cora smiled over nonsensical memories of their parents.

They had been healing and recovering for so long, but that was the first moment Peter truly recognized it.

He turned to look at Stiles, the omega who had barged his way into their house and made all this possible. The boy was sitting across from him, barely an arm’s length away, grinning and gesticulating wildly as he fueled on the ruckus laughter with his commentary and questions. He was down right pretty, with his pale, beauty-marked skin and glowing eyes that only hinted at the magic he might one day be capable of.

Even without that magic, this omega was breathing fresh life into his pack.

Peter wasn’t sure how to identify the emotions that realization was stirring up in him. He wasn’t sure it mattered. Stiles was his, or would be soon enough. There was no need to panic, he could just float there for a while, buoyed on the easy comfort of whatever magic Stiles was working on him and his pack. 

Or he could have, except Stiles wasn’t quite done for the day.

“Enough, enough!” Stiles demanded once everyone’s belly was full and they’d finished the last of the peach cobbler Stiles had baking throughout the meal. The laughter and talk died down as he hopped on top of his chair and clapped his hands grandly, “Enough about you. It’s my time now!”

“Oh?” Erica perked up from further down the table, “You and Papa Stilinski got an embarrassing family story to share?”

“Yeah,” Boyd cut in, “it’s called ‘Stiles’”

“Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious,” Stiles said dryly over more than a few snickers. Then he noticed said snickering from Noah and scowled, “You just keep laughing, old man. You’re stuck with me for another two weeks yet,”

“Ooh!” Laura leaned back in her chair, nudging Peter, “So feisty!”

Peter followed along, leaning back and bumping shoulders with his Second. He looked up at Stiles and licked his lips, “I certainly hope so,”

Stiles pointed at him accusingly. “No. Back off. You will not distract me with your unfairly superior sex appeal.”

“Too late,” Chris stage-whispered in Derek’s ear.

“Enough!” Stiles cried, stomping his foot like the classic spoiled omega he sometimes was. “Do you want your goddam gifts or not!?”

“Hold up,” Cora actually raised a hand in surprise, “there’s _more_?”

Stiles threw his hands up and looked skyward for a second. “Alright, look. This,” he waved both hands in large circles to indicate the table and it’s hosted mess of dishes, “is a pack tradition. And it’s a great one, even if it mimics mundane Christian bastardizations of the original Easter to a disappointing degree—”

“Stiles,” Noah interrupted pointedly, his smile fond and exasperated.

“Right. I digress, my bad.” Stiles put a hand over his heart and said with feigned patience, “I, on the other hand, have aspirations of becoming a full fledged druid one day, and part of that happens to include a healthy and respectful appreciation for Ostara, so if you don’t mind shutting the hell up so I can do my thing?”

“Shutting the hell up now,” Peter assured him, shooting a meaningful glance down the table to the pups that made up his pack.

“Thank you,” Stiles said magnanimously, then he pointed at Peter and Chris and said, “Now. You’re being conscripted into helping me bring out the goods,”

And so it was that the three of them retrieved the piles of pastel-wrapped gifts that had been transplanted from the Stilinski’s car to the living room earlier. They dumped the lot of it at the end of the table by Stiles’ chair and returned to their own seats.

Stiles picked up the largest gift, a periwinkle blue rectangle half the size of his torso.

“In honor of the Goddess and the Horned God,” Stiles said, the ceremonial words sounding casual and almost embarrassed from his mouth, “I hope to bless my new family with the trappings of a brighter future.”

With a flourish he handed the box to Derek, with a meaningful look at Chris. “It’s for both of you, actually.”

Derek accepted the gift with a look of confusion. “Thank you,”

“Go ahead,” Stiles waved them on. Once Derek and Chris began pulling the bright paper off, he continued, “Just as Ostara oversees the fertility of the earth in Springtime, this should represent her blessing in your own regard.”

Chris laughed and Derek blushed hotly as they unearthed a beautifully imperfect wall hanging. It was clearly hand-made, a large circle of woven reeds and branches, with flowers and greenery caught in between as thinner vines twisted behind a tree-bark visage of a crescent moon and something that looked vaguely like a butterfly.

“It’s spelled to stay fresh. Like… forever, in theory,” Stiles assured them. Then he threw all semblance of caution to the wind and added, “Also… you’re suppose to hang it over your bed.”

The pack let loose with a series of whistles and catcalls, during which Derek glared venomously at Stiles. He did, however, return the hanging to the box with a distinct amount of care.

Stiles smiled sheepishly and held his hands up as if in defense, “I don’t make the rules, buddy,”

The entire pack held their breath as Stiles handed the next gift, hardly bigger than his palm, to Malia.

“This better not be a fertility thing,” she warned.

"I should hope not," Deucalion agreed. 

“Just open it,”

She did. It was a bracelet, woven with thick, sturdy cord, with a stone chiseled into the rough semblance of Pan.

“As the Horned God celebrates with Hunt and Dance,” Stiles told her solemnly, “this should lend grace and speed to your movements in pursuit of the same.”

Malia turned the stone effigy over in her fingers, nodding. She sounded surprised and appreciative as she murmured a soft, “Thanks, Stiles.”

Laura was gifted a similar effigy, the Pan etched onto a smooth stone pendant that hung from a leather cord around her neck.

Boyd, Erica and Cora each received a vial of shimmering oil that smelled like spring flowers, citrus, and something that reminded Peter of a cheery open fire. According to Stiles, a dap of the perfume on the throat before bed would sooth the mind and body for better sleep and encourage good dreams.

Then Stiles turned to Peter with the final gift, and Peter tore off the paper before anyone could make a smartass comment about fertility.

“It’s… a plate?” Peter asked, lifting the surprisingly heavy stone piece out of it’s wrapping.

Like all the other gifts, the plate was clearly hand-made by an amateur and carried the same tingling hint of ozone on its scent. It was only now that Peter was studying the item directly under his nose that he realized he was smelling Stiles’ raw, unfiltered spark.

Abruptly, he realized these gifts were no mere tokens, but actual magic. Stiles had made them all with his own hands, with his own power.

With additional reverence, Peter ran his fingers over the surface of the plate. It wasn’t a perfect circle, and its face was uneven, with plenty of bumps where it should have been flat, but it was smooth and without unpleasant grooves, cracks or points. It was a bit concave, with a thick outer lip that made it momentarily confused with a shallow bowl.

The surface had been painted with careful black and blue brushstrokes, smaller and more intricate the closer it got to the center. Peter recognized the crescent moon, horns and butterfly, throughout the mosaic

No matter the degree of craftsmanship of the stone, the painting was deliberate and beautiful, smooth and precise. Stiles had taken extra care with his gift. 

“You can put it by your bedside, or in your office,” Stiles told him, sounding soft and even a little hesitant.

“What does it do, darling?” He prompted just as softly.

Stiles’ smile was absolutely hopeful as he bit at a hangnail. “It’s a burning bowl. So you can release your fears and worries and not carry them so much into your future. Our future.”

Peter stared down at the stone, at the symbols of rebirth and vitality and hope decorating its surface. He thought about how The Council had found the need to interfere with his pack for the second time, how the events of the past several months—of the past several years—had worn on him, how Christopher had called him out about his dependency, and how all of it had brought him to Stiles.

How Stiles had called him without meaning to.

His fingers traced the intricate symbol toward the edge of the plate, large enough that he could make out the convoluted likeness of a rabbit, one of Ostara’s many symbols, a sign for fertility and family and abundance and comfort.

He looked up again to see Stiles watching him with an uneasy expression, and he didn’t think of the words that came out of his mouth. He didn’t think of the poor timing, or the table-full of people watching them. He spoke the only words he could think of:

“I love you,”


	17. Seventeen

Stiles didn’t say the words back, but his bright smile was almost as good. The kiss would have been better, if Noah hadn’t snagged the back of the omega’s collar and hauled him off right then and there.

Peter dreamed about that smile, fantasized about that so-close kiss, all night long. Not even the pack’s collective teasing had dampened those visions. All night long.

His only regret was not stealing a kiss before Noah insisted they get back in the car to head home that same evening.

“Sleep well, Romeo?” Laura said the next morning.

He might have regretted confessing in front of the pack. Laura wasn’t the only one shooting him superior, mushy smirks. He came down in his pajamas for coffee, and the whole damn pack was sitting at the table and breakfast bar, lying in wait for him. Peter looked around the room, taking in Boyd and Cora at the bar, everyone else at the table. Even Chris. Even Deucalion.

He wasn’t the only one in bedclothes, but he was definitely the only person left un-caffeinated. And the only one being inspected like a petty shoplifter unexpectedly in front of a full tribunal.

He held up one finger before anyone else could speak. “Coffee first.”

He had thought it’d buy him another few moments to rally his groggy morning mind, which had been so rudely dragged away from remembering his dream-Stiles. He thought wrong.

Boyd wordlessly held out a steaming mug before Peter could take another step.

Peter narrowed his eyes at him as he accepted the mug. “Why do I feel like this might be poisoned?”

Boyd shrugged, as if to say he had no clue.

Peter sipped at the hot liquid, watching them watch him. The coffee was half-gone too soon and he was no closer to guessing why everyone was staring at him so expectantly. So he lowered the mug, slowing down to savor the flavor on his tongue, and waited.

He didn’t like the grin on Erica’s face, or the way she was _literally_ bouncing in her seat.

“Good God, Peter,” Deucalion huffed before too long, as if this was Peter’s fault, “Put them out of their misery already and tell them.”

Peter frowned. “Tell them… what?”

Boyd and Derek at least finally stopped staring. The former snorted and turned away, pointedly focusing on his own steaming mug. Derek sighed and closed his eyes as he rubbed his temples in apparent exasperation. Beside him, Chris rubbed his back reassuringly as he laughed silently in Peter’s face.

“What?” Peter repeated.

Cora jumped to her feet, looking livid, “Stiles!?” She shouted at him.

Peter wasn’t sure where this was going. He wasn’t a morning person. “… Yes?”

“You love him!” She cried, as if this was an explanation rather than an observation.

“And,” Erica chimed in, Cheshire grin stubbornly bright, “We all heard Stiles tell his dad he was stuck with him for another _two weeks_!”

“Peter Hale,” Laura gripped, jaw set in mock sternness, “Did you set a mating date without tell me?”

Peter blinked.

“Don’t forget the bowl,” Boyd supplied helpfully, eyes on his cup.

“Yeah!” Cora yelled, as if she was freshly reminded of another irritating point.

“Yes, the bowl,” Derek glowered at Peter, “The one with all the fertility symbols on it,”

At this point, Chris had to wipe away a tear, his face red from stifling his laughter. Asshole.

Peter chose not to answer. Instead, he hid his face behind the saving grace that was coffee. It was no use. They were all still staring at him, undeterred.

“When _is_ your mating happening, Peter?” Malia asked, leaning heavily on her elbows, braced on the table. “In two weeks exactly?”

“Interested parties want to know,” Laura said angrily. Peter wasn’t fooled, this close, he could smell her and there was no rage, only blistering excitement and joy. “They also want to know when you and Stiles decided pups were going to happen for you too,”

“Not that we’re not thrilled,” Derek said, his irritation genuine, “but we always thought you weren’t interested in a second round of fatherhood.”

Peter sighed. “I’m really not awake enough for this conversation.”

“Too bad,”

“Derek,” Chris gripped the omega’s nape soothingly.

“Fine, you know what—” Peter snapped, patting his pockets for his phone.

He really wasn’t alert enough, and he definitely wasn’t prepared to explain his mixed feelings and thoughts that had led to his and Stiles’ compromise where progeny were concerned. He might have been panicking. He wasn’t thinking this through.

He put the phone on speaker for Chris’ benefit, and two seconds later, Scott’s cheerful voice filled the room.

“Hey, Peter. Good mor—”

“Stiles. Now.” Then, belatedly: “Please.”

“Uh… he’s at his dad’s hou—”

“That’s what the conference call function is for, Scott!” Chris chirped helpfully.

Peter flipped him off as they listened to Scott grumble before the phone went silent.

Erica’s excitement had her bouncing straight out of her seat. She looped her arm through Peter’s and hung off him, eyes on the phone expectantly. He swayed as Laura joined them, her arm flung over his shoulders. It would have been a nice little pack cuddle, if the girls weren’t badgering him for answers he wasn’t ready to give.

“Hello?” Stiles said groggily. Peter was selfishly pleased to think that Stiles would be similarly sleepy and unprepared for the pack’s unprompted inquisition.

“Stiles,” Peter was almost appalled to hear his voice go so warm and affectionate without his permission. He was trying to be irritated and pissy here, because he _was_.

“Hey, wolfman,” Stiles replied with equal warmth, even if he was slurring a little with sleepiness.

Peter was not to be distracted though, not when the whole pack, plus Deucalion, was breathing down his neck with expectations. He ignored the urge to coo at the omega and sooth him back to sleep with his voice. Instead, he shrugged Laura and Erica off and cleared his throat, all business.

“Did you, by chance, have a date in mind for our mating when you visited us yesterday?”

He expected Stiles to blush and stammer, maybe laugh and say something coy and teasing. He’d been telling Stiles for weeks now that all he had to do was name a day, and he’d never gotten the impression Stiles was willing to consider it seriously until the semester was successfully concluded. He expected Stiles to reassure the pack for him, to tell them they weren’t quite there yet.

That’s not what happened.

Stiles yawned, and said breezily: “Yeah, the twenty-fifth.”

Cora pumped her fist in the air.

Erica shook his arm viciously, “I knew it!”

Laura smacked the back of his head as if in rebuke.

And Peter… he just took it.

Stiles’ laugh was slow and gentle, the drowsy sound of an amused, relaxed omega that made Peter envision him mused and warm from sleep. Numbly, Peter realized he’d get to see him like that in just two short weeks. Apparently.

“This is news to me,” Scott interjected, sounding flummoxed. “But okay. Does that day work for you, Peter?”

“It works!” Malia shouted, marching around the table. “Also, sorry, but you guys aren’t invited to my mating.”

“Huh? Who—”

“Why the hell not!?” Stiles complained, suddenly sounding awake and whiny. “Malia!? Why would you wound me like that?”

Malia yanked the phone from Peter’s hand and snarled into the receiver, “Because I’m not losing two-hundred bucks, you little shit.”

“Ca-ching!” Erica crowed, giving Malia a fist-bump.

Stile groaned dramatically, “I lied. Peter, let me overdose on Redbull and Scott and I can be back out there _tonight—_ ”

“Too late!” Erica yelled.

Malia hung up on Stiles’ wordless, moaning complaint. She handed the phone back to a stunned Peter and said flippantly: “By the way, father dearest, I’m getting mated tonight.”

Across the room, Deucalion didn’t even look surprised or irritated, just mildly amused.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of puppyish excitement and activity, and Peter never did get a chance to collect his thoughts or recover from the mental whiplash of waking up to the immediate news that further life-changing events were imminent and his personal plans were now common knowledge among the pack.

Everyone seemed to be moving full speed ahead without him, but at least they were taking pity on him and not expecting a whole lot. Laura and Erica took Malia out for the afternoon to shop for an appropriate dress or top that would leave her bare and accessible for the mating Bite. Derek and Cora were clearing up the yard from Easter Sunday’s celebration and making room for the circle. Deucalion took on the responsibility of ensuring both Deaton and Marin were available that evening, and both he and Christopher made it easy for him as chaperone by keeping him company in his office.

Somehow, it was surprising to end up whiling the day away in close company of the only two people around in a more-or-less similar situation to himself: alphas on the brink of imminent, unexpected, though not unwelcome, matehood.

They made it to one o’clock before Deucalion sniffed out the Wolvesbane wine Peter kept stashed in his office.

“Children though, really?” the blind alpha scoffed with disdain from the comfort of Peter’s fancy leather desk chair.

“Shut up,” Chris snipped back with a roll of his eyes, “Just because kids make you squirm doesn’t mean we should feel the same,”

“Kids terrify me,” Peter admitted, then immediately gulped back more wine.

Chris gave him a sympathetic smile, “But they’re worth it. And omegas…. I think it’s a need for them.”

Deucalion grinned, and the bald pride on his face was a sign of the alcohol taking hold, “Not mine,”

“Fine, it’s a need for _most_ of them,” Chris allowed snidely.

Even tipsy, Peter couldn’t bring himself to join in the easy banter. “It’s a need for Stiles, I think. Maybe not the foremost need, but… I think he’d be unhappy if we didn’t at least try,” Then, after an awkward pause, “I think he’ll be unhappy anyway when he sees what a shit father he chose for a mate,”

Deucalion frowned, “If you don’t want children, Peter, don’t have them. Stiles hardly seems the unbearably maternal type anyway. Let him dote on Christopher’s offspring and don’t worry yourself.”

Chris threw a pen at Deucalion, bouncing it off the blind wolf’s forehead with a satisfying thwap. Deucalion flicked him off and rubbed at the spot, scowling.

“No,” Peter said, ignoring their antics, “Stiles deserves babies if he wants them,”

“Babies?” Chris said with renewed interest. “As in plural?”

“Don’t bite off more than you chew, pup,” Deucalion muttered into his glass.

Peter stared into his own drink and tried to imagine it. Stiles, the pack, not just Derek and Chris’ pup, but one or two of his own under foot. He imagined Laura’s unbridled joy to have babies to cuddle with none of the responsibility or ownership for their bodily functions. He tried to picture Boyd and Cora shelving their bewilderment to let a pup clamber all over them; he had no doubt they would. Above all, he tried to see himself with a small body in his arms, tried to imagine doting on and loving it the way he’d seen Talia demonstrate with her own children, with _his_ child.

The children he’d helped her with, albeit in the hands-off, dutiful rather than tender way of a close uncle and pack mate of an appropriate age range. He didn’t know much about children, but he knew they deserved more from a father than that. Stiles deserved more from his mate.

It wouldn’t be the first time Peter had stepped up.

“I’m selfish,” Peter sad simply, downing another inch of ruby liquid. “I want him, and I’m willing to giving him whatever he wants as the asking price. Maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised and end up enjoying it.”

And it was easy, so very easy, to imagine Stiles chasing after a pair of pups, maybe even more than two. Peter just didn’t know if he could keep up.

“Still,” Chris countered, amusement in his voice, “Maybe see how one goes first,”

“Says the middle-aged alpha jumping at the chance to breed his shy omega darling,” Deucalion chided.

Chris wasn’t bothered by the comment. “Damn right. You wouldn’t be so condescending about it if you could see how he grew up. Besides, I’ve got enough life in me for another eighteen-year stint.”

“Just one more, huh?” Peter asked as he got up to refill his glass.

The human chuckled, “Yeah. If Alison taught me anything, it’s that I don’t have the attention span to adequately parent more than one kid at a time. Derek knows that.” A thoughtful look crossed his face and he nodded to himself, “I think he might even be relieved I only want one. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“I’ll continue to count myself fortunate,” Deucalion commented right before draining his glass and holding it up in the direction he could hear Peter pouring more alcohol.

“Not gonna lie,” Peter sighed, tipping the wine bottle nearly upside down to drain into Duke’s glass, “I was worried for a while in the beginning there: I kept thinking I’d have to bribe someone to take Malia, and then it’d start a feud when the poor bastard realized he’d been conned into a life-long commitment with the only omega in the Northern Hemisphere with zero maternal instinct.”

“And here I’d been so furious with you,” Deucalion admitted, posh and casual and utterly honest, “for conning me into a traditional mating that could only end in misery for any poor omega with a ticking biological clock.”

Peter chuckled, “You can blame Laura for that. It was her idea,”

“Oh? And was she the one who reminded Marin that I was an eligible bachelor?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Peter said sweetly.

“On a related note,” Chris cleared his throat stiffly, and it was the closest to nervous Peter could recall ever seeing him, “You were understandably distracted yesterday, Peter, but Duke and I noticed a little something…”

Deucalion gave a surprised bark of laughter, “Glad you decided to tell him, Christopher,”

“For fuck’s sake,” Peter groaned, “What now,”

“I think Derek might be further along than we’ve been worrying.” Chris said with a small, involuntary smile, “Even my human nose was picking up some poignant pheromones yesterday.”

Peter stared back at him, unamused. “What, exactly, are you getting at?”

“What do you think,” Duke answered dryly, “You’d best kick Christopher out and lock him in his own house. Give him another day and he’ll be triggering Derek’s heat early,”

Peter would have rolled his eyes and accepted it as teasing, but Chris gave a low, self-satisfied laugh.

“He reeked of slick all through dinner,” Duke continued, tone dripping condemnation, “You had your nose so far up _Stiles’_ ass you somehow didn’t notice.”

“We were sitting on the clear opposite side of the table!” Chris defended him, though amused.

“Really?” Peter asked Chris in disbelief, “I mean… Derek? Really?”

Chris grinned and shrugged, “I guess he’s ready,”

Peter whimpered and rubbed his face tiredly, “That’s a conversation that’ll have to wait. I can’t handle it today.”

The other two alphas laughed.

Peter flushed, “You don’t understand, six months ago, I thought we were firmly on level ground; the pack was stable and growing, slowly, yeah, but we _were_ growing. I haven’t needed to chase off a rogue alpha in years, guys. _Years_! And Beacon Hills has never had a better relationship with the local Fae, not for generations!

“And all of a sudden, the Council’s back in town, lording over me how they know better how to handle _my pack_ , and oh yeah—”

At some point, he’d gotten to his feet and begun pacing, waving his glass around in irritation. He threw his hand out in a wide gesture that sloshed wine onto his wrist. He ignored it.

“Apparently,” he continued heatedly, then paused to ensure his office door was closed. He hissed: “ _Apparently_ , I’ve got all these fucking omegas tip-toeing around under my nose, suffering in silence because they’re worried or some shit that I’m not up to snuff. Me! Their _Pack Alpha_ , and they’d all decided to coddle me instead of relying on me to do my damn job,”

It was one of those moments when alcohol and stress combined to dislodge the hard-stuck truths that had been shoved down too deep and too hard to normally see the light of day. Peter hadn’t consciously acknowledged before that moment how truly wounded he’d felt since being unceremoniously ordered to mate off his packmates. The moment the ranting words were out of his mouth, he was reeling with the truth of it.

It didn’t matter that there were plenty of personal reasons that had lead Derek, Isaac and Malia avoid their mating instincts for so long. The part of Peter that knew he never should have been made their Pack Leader understood that he’d been found wanting, that his omegas hadn’t trusted or believed he would do what was best for them.

“Been sitting on that for a while, have you?” Duke stated, calm and solemn in the face of Peter temper. He’d set his mostly-full glass on the desk at the start of the rant and hadn’t touched it since.

Peter deflated. He admitted tiredly, “It just never stops. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on each of them, they rip the rug right out from under me. I’m supposed to be leading them through this, and instead they’re just… dragging me along.”

Chris gave a thoughtful hum, “I imagine Stiles isn’t any easier to manage,”

Peter’s laugh was short and harassed even to his own ears, “He’s the worst of the lot. Did Duke tell you what he had Malia do after she came to him for flirting advice?”

Because of course, Stiles had proudly admitted to the skirt-and-masturbation combo being his idea.

Duke cringed, “I prefer to pretend your mate had no involvement, if you don’t mind. It… _diminishes_ the experience somewhat,”

“Bet it didn’t stop you from rubbing one out to the memory last night,” Peter teased, unrepentant.

Deucalion’s expression went carefully blank, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,”

“I don’t want to know,” Chris warned, “Stiles has been something of a hot mess since the day he presented, I don’t want to know what wildly inappropriate situations he’s been encouraging. Or engaging in, for that matter.”

Peter thought back to his one and only dirty phone call conversation, after Stiles had left the first pair of underwear for him. “Fair enough. If any one’s safe from his influence, I suppose it would be Derek,”

“For now,” Duke said darkly, “Watch yourself, Christopher. The two of them will soon be packmates, after all.”

Chris considered that for a moment, then shook his head, “Nope. I can’t see it. Derek’s too composed for the sort of nonsense Stiles would consider fun and flirty.”

The blind alpha winced as he said, “Three days ago, I might have said the same of Malia.”

“Yeah, but Malia’s not a rape survivor,”

“I’ll warn you now, Christopher,” Deucalion said slowly, with complete earnestness, “Derek will recover enough from his trauma eventually, sooner than you’re thinking if his scent last night was anything to go by. When he does, I sincerely hope you’re prepared to deal with him. Do keep in mind, by that point Stiles will be the only other omega around with healthy relationship experience to lean on,”

Chris paled. Then he shook his head vehemently, “Nope. Not going there. That way lies insanity.”

Now Peter thought about Stiles’ second pair of underwear, the pretty and wet panties he’d been so enamored with for a good hour or more. Framed in the context of his own mate, Peter thought there were far worse things than an omega exploring their sexuality with a safe and reliable partner.

“Maybe the good kind of insanity,” he mused, then added snidely to Chris, “But if you and Derek ever get to that point, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Deucalion finally retrieved his glass from the desk top and held it up. “To happy omegas and necessary boundaries!”

“Here, here!”

All too soon after that, Laura came knocking on his office door to summon them downstairs. It was early evening, the sun not yet sinking behind the tree line, and Marin and Deaton were already standing in the back yard waiting for them.

Neither druid looked amused to find the two alpha wolves involved in the ceremony thoroughly drunk. More interestingly, they seemed to be more upset with Chris over the matter than the wolves themselves.

Christopher helpfully pushed Duke into the rose and ivy circle and clapped a hand on Peter’s arm to drag him to the side. He smiled and waved at Marin as if to say: _see, I’m helping_! Peter had never appreciated him more.

That was a lie. Derek sidled up to them and fitted himself under Chris’ arm seamlessly, and Peter caught the tell-tale and unmistakable scent of omega sweetness, light and mild though it was. Peter supposed he most appreciated Chris’ role in his nephew’s life, all things considered.

He didn’t have much more time to ponder on the two of them though.

Malia came out of the house wearing a dress. An honest-to-God _dress_. It was simple red cotton, strapless and cut just above her knee. She looked lovely and when she stepped into the circle she immediately took her mate’s hands and led them, one to her hip and the other to her shoulder so he could appreciate the texture and understand she’d left her throat bare for him. An unaccustomed smile graced the alpha’s face and his fingers were unexpectedly light as they trailed across her collar and the hollow of her throat.

Then, for the first time, Deucalion removed his sunglasses and showed her the milky grey of his eyes as he folded and handed them toward Marin.

“One more thing,” he told his emissary before she could step back and the ceremony could begin.

His other hand left Malia’s waist and he unbuttoned his shirt. Malia stiffened, her scent lighting up with surprise and pleasure.

“Why so shocked?” he smirked as he slid the shirt off and handed it to Marin, “I believe we agreed on a certain reciprocity from the beginning, did we not?”

Malia’s facial expression was pure elation at that moment as she eyed the curve of his neck and the thick muscle there. The sweet musk of aroused omega hit the air with a vengeful surge that made Peter suddenly thankful that Marin was driving them to a heat-friendly hotel straight after this.

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember.” She admitted, and the tightness in her words belied how nervous she’d been. Peter realized she might have anticipated Duke to renege on that particular point.

“I remember,” he promised her, and his voice was hot and growling as his hand returned to her waist.

Peter stepped up to the edge of the circle to meet Deaton and his bag of sands, and it was like being hit with a brick labeled _déjà vu_. Everything from the scent of roses, to the excitement through the pack rocked through Peter with familiarity and recent memory. All the pride and loss and happiness from the day he’d giving Isaac away were shoved to the forefront of his mind. Peter took a breath and somehow, some undefinable way, managed to keep the stinging of his eyes at bay.

“Alpha Hale,” Deaton said in a tone that might have been sympathetic and proud, if it’d come from anyone else. He held out the silk bag.

For the second time, Peter did as he ought, grabbing a handful and tossing it in a wide arch over his daughter’s head and that of her mate’s. Once again, he said a prayer in the safety of his mind, wishing them peace and success and above all happiness. And again he felt the pack bond to his omega stutter and weaken till it was gone.

His Malia met his eye as they broke apart, and if both their eyes turned wet and pitiful no one dared mention it.

Malia didn’t fall into her mate’s arms as she shivered, momentarily lost and alone. She found his hand on her hip and took it in hers, squeezing tightly. She took a deep breath, spine straight and hardening, and faced him with her chin up.

She was so strong and so ready.

Stronger than her father, Peter thought somberly. He wished Stiles was there, at his back, holding him together before he could fall apart with the loss of another beloved pack mate.

Two hands caught him as he backed up into the crowd. One on his wrist, another on his opposite shoulder. Derek and Laura. They held him fast, and while it didn’t stop him from crying entirely, it helped him retain some dignity by keeping it all quiet.

“With the magic and authority of the Council, we bless this mating and welcome omega Malia Hale into the Pack,” Marin said, cool and melodious as she completed her half of the mountain-ash circle.

Across the way, Deaton ended his half. The circle closed and Malia let out a long, expectant sigh. Holding her hand with white knuckles, Deucalion rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, breathing carefully measured breaths.

There was a heartbeat of silence and mounting tension.

They never let go of each other’s hand. Deucalion’s free arm snaked around her waist and pinned her to him just as Malia’s free hand gripped his shoulder and dug in hard to bring him close. In tandem, as if they’d practiced it, they tilted their heads and moved in as jaws opened and fangs dropped.

He was deadly silent as he struck deep. She let out a hungry snarl and bit hard and fast.

Instantly, the tension broke.

Malia writhed. She didn’t release her mouthful. Her body rolled sinuously and she just about brought her alpha to his knees with the unexpected sensuality of it.

Deucalion ended his bite with a gasp, those blind eyes glowing a deep, deep red that was almost black as his wolf instincts came to the fore.

It was startling. The idea of an omega giving a mating bite might have seemed comical to so many people, but the reality was anything but in that moment. Malia gave as good as she got, and she was unrepentant and demanding with it. And no matter the unconventionality of it, the bites took.

Laura was the first to get over her surprise and start up the howl this time. Perhaps a bit slower than usual, the rest of the pack followed suit and joined her.

As Peter joined his voice with theirs, he thought he heard Deaton give a slow, stunned clap.

Nearby, Chris murmured: “Well done, girl,”


	18. Eighteen

Two weeks came and went. Eventfully.

First, Derek had, against all naysaying and odds, gone into heat early.

While suppressants were marvelous things, but they were nothing in the face of a triggered heat: ie, the kind of heat that lay outside an omega’s regular cycle and therefore outside the general rules of well-managed biology; the kind resulting from an innate and undeniable instinct to secure the attention of an available and reliable mate.

Of course, Derek had gotten one whiff of himself the morning it hit and just about tore himself in two over the issue. Instinct and mounting desire had him randy like never before, but anxiety and fear about getting physical with an alpha ruined it.

Chris, Peter and Derek all agreed not to rush things for the dubious hope that Derek’s heat would sooth his anxieties about the carnal act of mating. So Peter and Laura played body guard while Derek stank up the house with a whirlwind heat and Chris stayed at the cabin house for the weekend.

Second. They learned Isaac was pregnant.

It didn’t matter that he was no longer pack, Laura and Erica just about lost their minds over the news. Even Boyd found himself in the baby section of Target, supposedly without meaning to. The pack collectively spent a small fortune on infant paraphernalia. No one seemed to know how much of the bounty was going to Isaac though, since everyone seemed convinced the Beacon Hills Pack was likely to be rolling in pups themselves any day now. There was another betting pool surrounding the matter.

So Peter spent the second week fending off mild panic attacks and generally working hard to avoid all the tiny onesies and bibs floating around the house.

Then thirdly: Chris disappeared for four days.

Five days before Peter’s mating, the Council requested Chris’ presence in San Diego to assist the local Hunters with an out-of-control hunt for a feral wendigo. He refused to come out of retirement, but acquiesced on the grounds that he would operate in a purely advisory position over the team. He kicked said team’s asses into gear and got the job done in less than seventy-two hours, which meant he was conveniently available to cart Alison and the Martin women to Beacon Hills for the mating.

All of that would have been fine, not even a blip on Peter’s radar, if it weren’t for Chris’ absence affecting Derek so strongly. Fresh out of a triggered heat and newly appreciative of the potential, ugh… _pleasure_ to be had from mating, Derek was miserable for those few days. And dead-set on spreading that misery through shear petulant will power.

And he was clingy. Omegas were usually extremely tactile, and after heat they could be downright desperate for constant cuddling; for the first time in over a decade, Derek embraced that part of his nature at the worst possible time. All he wanted was his alpha (meaning Chris) to hold him and he’d angrily accepted the only available substitute (Peter, sometimes Laura) with pronounced dissatisfaction.

Turns out, preparing for ones’ mating was a tricky thing indeed when constantly overshadowed by a grumpy omega with an inconsistent nervous response to anything reminiscent of his own looming change in relationship status.

So Isaac was pregnant, Derek was dramatically hormonal, and Stiles was a constant, spaz-tastic, _sexual_ weight on Peter’s every thought. Malia, bless her, had returned to her predictably cool attitude, and left him be.

Peter thought he’d been safe to reach out, it’d been nearly two weeks without a word from her. He’d called her to checkup (she was doing well), perhaps to vent (because he wasn’t so sure he was half as well), and make sure she and Deucalion were coming back for his mating (they were). He thought she’d give him some sympathy, instead she’d laughed in his face.

Suffice it to say, Peter was _done_. With everything, but especially omegas and their nonsense.

Maybe not all omegas, just the nonsense.

He wanted to claim his Stiles, fuck both their brains out, and carry him off into the sunset that would last the entire week. Just him and his omega, not a single person besides. And fucking, lots and lots of fucking.

That was it. That was all he wanted.

Isaac, the little shit, had snuck him another few Not-Council-Approved photos of Stiles over the past several days. Stiles, the bigger shit, was encouraging Isaac’s behavior and supplementing it with his own teasing phone calls full of innuendo. Derek, the biggest shit, had taken to knocking on Peter’s door in the night whenever he couldn’t sleep from missing Chris, which was every freaking night. Malia, the asshole, found the whole thing hilarious.

It wasn’t. It was not fucking funny.

Peter hadn’t masturbated in a week. He hadn’t even slept soundly in at least that long. None of which was surprising, with so much infant merchandise laying around.

Still. He was an _alpha_. He had _needs_.

By the time the McCall Pack paraded into town and took over the local bed and breakfast, Peter was in no shape for company.

Even so, Peter was standing on the porch, waiting impatiently, as Stiles, Scott, Isaac and Noah were the first to show their faces as the pack house. The car was barely in park before the omega threw himself out of it and came it him with a running leap and a maniacal laugh.

Unlike last time, Peter met him half way, out on the lawn.

It was fast. No one expected Peter to participate in such impropriety, not in full view of the house, Stiles’ father and Pack Leader.

Supernaturally quick, he snatched Stiles’ lithe form out of the air and swooped in for that long-awaited kiss before anyone could stop him. Their bodies collided, and Stiles gasped against his mouth as Peter’s arms squeezed the breath from him in an unexpected embrace.

His boy was quick on the uptake though. He threw himself into the kiss where a lesser omega might have melted. Skinny arms went around Peter’s neck and surprisingly strong fingers gripped his hair. That clever mouth opened for him eagerly enough to make up for the lack of finesse and the way their teeth clashed.

He tasted like spice and tea leaves and sugar, and under it all like promise and _omega_.

Peter rolled his hips forward against the boy’s belly without thinking, one large hand pressing in the small of his back to pin them together.

Stiles _mewled_.

Before Peter could follow the inclination to shove his thigh between Stiles’ legs and give the boy something substantial to rub against, something cold and wet splashed over his head.

“Fuck!” Peter roared, pulling away from Stiles abruptly.

Stiles floundered, eyes sparkling and lips bruised and his hair and shoulders drenched. He stumbled back and wiped the wet hair back from his forehead, blinking rapidly and looking dazed.

Peter turned to see Cora grinning at them, a large empty cup in her hands.

“I’m going to kill you,” Peter seethed.

She rolled her eyes.

“You should be thanking her,” Noah scolded, looking supremely unimpressed, but not exactly surprised as he glared at them.

“Aw, let them have a little fun,” Isaac said as he winked at Stiles and gave Cora a big hug.

“I mean… it could have been worse,” Scott admitted reluctantly. When Noah gave him a look, he raised his hands and professed, “It’s true! At least no one was blatantly groping anyone!”

“Except Cora,” Isaac said, with an amused look down where the beta was rubbing his still-flat stomach with a suspicious frown on her face.

“There’s nothing to feel yet!” Scott scowled. He stomped over to them with the huffy attitude of a possessive alpha who’d fended off a few too many wandering hands lately.

Stiles crept over to Peter’s side and whispered, “If we’re quiet, I bet we could sneak off and get back to the kissing—eek!”

Peter smirked, his palm faintly stinging from swatting the cheeky omega’s backside. “Knock it off, brat. Stop tempting me to sin,”

Stiles gaped at him, affronted. “ _Me_? Tempt _you_? Remind me again who just tried to dry hump who before even attempting a socially-acceptable hello?”

“I’m watching you,” Noah muttered as he started heading toward the house with a carry-on bag. “Scott might be distracted, but don’t get any ideas. You can keep the hanky-panky on pause for a few more hours yet, I think.”

Peter ran his eyes over Stiles hotly, licking his lips. Hours. Just a few hours.

Stiles blushed under the scrutiny and opened his mouth to say something.

Noah smacked him upside the head with a stern, “No. Whatever you’re thinking, be nice to Peter and keep it to yourself. And you,” Noah hefted the bag and shoved it into Peter’s chest. “Take this wherever. It’s Stiles’ overnight pack and should have everything pertinent. Jordan’s bringing the rest of his shit later in the back of the truck.”

Peter accepted the bag readily and dutifully ignored the pang in his chest at the tangible evidence that this was happening. When he set the bag next to the bureau in his own room, the luggage unfamiliar in his comfortable and private space, the panging was a little hard to ignore. He took some time to collect himself, dry his hair and change his shirt, and generally beat his emotions into submissions to be dealt with later.

When he returned downstairs, he found the Martins and the Argents had joined his pack in the living room. Derek was sitting next to Chris, clinging enough that it was a miracle he hadn’t crawled right into the alpha’s lap. Isaac was literally on Scott’s lap, and irritatingly enough, so was Stiles; specifically, he was perched on Erica’s thigh with his long legs draped across her and Boyd, his feet braced on Lydia’s knee.

Well, Peter reasoned privately, at least all the omegas were content and settled.

He tried not to act as aggrieved as he felt when he sat down and his own lap remained sorely omega-less. At bare minimum, he managed not to glare at Erica, so he called it a win.

“Talk to me about baby names,” Laura demanded. She was sitting on the floor, cross legged and leaning back against Derek’s legs as she pulled Isaac’s unresisting ankle toward her. Laura, the pack knew well, gave the best foot massages.

Sure enough, Isaac sighed into Scott’s shoulder, going boneless as Laura dug her knuckles into his arch. “Keep that up, and Laura the second will be a strong contender.”

“That’s a lie,” Scott assured her good-naturedly as he petted Isaac’s thigh and hip. “If it’s a girl, we’re going with Mel or Lisa after my mom.”

“Lisa,” Isaac mumbled, nuzzling Scott and sounding drowsy and pleased, “Mel is a cheesy nickname. Lisa can stand on its own,”

Peter watched the way Scott let Isaac snuggle on top of him, baring his throat to his mate so easily. They’d only been mated a few weeks, but the familiarity and ease between them was obvious. Peter expected the relief at such reassurance that he’d helped Isaac find the right kind of alpha for him.

He didn’t expect the unadulterated envy he felt, witnessing the cozy domesticity. He entertained the idea of snuggling Stiles like that, nothing inherently sexual about the interaction. It was nice. He even found himself hoping Stiles would seek him out just like this, when he was exhausted and cute with the hard work of growing their pup—

Peter physically recoiled from the unprecedented thought. They only person who saw was Stiles, who frowned at him with a little tilt of his head that seemed to ask if he was alright.

Unobtrusively, Peter pressed a single finger over his lips and winked.

Stiles seemed to understand. He smiled a private little smile just for Peter and returned his attention to the room at large.

“What if it’s a boy?” Erica asked.

“Ugh… We’re working on that one.” Scott admitted a little sheepishly. “We’ve got a few ideas, but we’re not really ready to announce any winners.”

“That’s cool,” Boyd chimed in with a patented carefree shrug, “You got time,”

“Nine months,” Derek commented, and the look he shot Isaac was studious and searching, “Not that much time, really.”

Chris ran his fingers through Derek’s hair with a fond smile, “It’s plenty of time,” 

Derek’s ears turned pink, and for a moment it looked like he’d say something further. Instead, his jaw tightened and he stole Isaac’s idea to burry his face in his mate’s throat, though in Derek’s case, it might have been a mater of hiding rather than comfortability. Hard to say.

“Well, I think Lisa is a perfect name,” Natalie said warmly.

Peter nearly flinched. Somehow, in all the hubbub, it’d slipped his mind entirely that she was there. He supposed it was a telling sign of how familial and trusted she was among Scott’s pack, that even Peter’s suspicious wolf mind couldn’t be bothered to see her as a threat. She may be a druid, but she was also family, as far as Peter’s instincts were concerned.

“No matter the name,” Natalie continued, “I better be on your speed dial for babysitting, Scott.”

“Sure thing,” Scott folded immediately with a warm grin.

“Right after Mama McCall and Kira,” Isaac mumbled, half asleep.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Kira as good as lives with you. She’s not going to want give up too many weekend nights after a while. And Melissa’s job at the hospital isn’t going to leave her flexible availability. If it did, she would have been at your mating ceremony,”

Natalie hummed and nodded sagely, “Yes, I should probably be number one on that speed dial.”

“Probably,” Stiles agreed in a similar tone.

Pack was more important than large-scale governing concerns, even the Council knew this. Natalie might not be mated into a pack, she wasn’t as tightly and intrinsically appreciated as Stiles, but she was family to wolves anyway.

Peter wondered when his subconscious had decided the San Diego pack was part of his own, albeit in a symbiotic sense that didn’t light up his possessive instincts.

The closest to an officially affiliated brother pack Peter had ever had involvement in was nearly twenty years ago, when Deucalion had left them to create his own pack. That had been before Duke’s dynamicist attitude had driven a wedge between their packs. Although… maybe now that Malia was helping the bastard rebuild, that history might be water under the bridge.

“It’s a shame you don’t live part time in Beacon Hills, Nat,” Stiles continued speaking, “I’m not sure these guys—” he thwapped Erica and Boyd soundly on their shoulders, “are gonna be ready for the responsibility of babysitting duties when the time comes,”

“Ha!” Chris laughed. “Guess you’ll have to get them up to speed before then, Mr. Emissary,”

“Don’t laugh,” Derek warned, “He’s got a point. We’ll have to depend on these assholes for the same thing,”

Chris sobered at that thought, and it was Erica’s and Boyd’s turn to laugh.

“Hey!” Laura cried from the floor, Isaac kicking her when she stopped rubbing his foot in her indignation, “What about me?! I’m a reliable babysitter!”

Peter didn’t say anything, just let the friendly bickering wash over him and provide cover for his latest minor freak out. Babies. Rebuilt Packs. The fact both Scott and Deucalion hadn’t so much as paused over the past several months to drop everything and come visit, even for just a day.

With a small start, Peter realized he’d never expected to pull this off.

He hadn’t expected to form any alliances or grow his own pack. Not since learning he had to mate off the omegas in his care. Not even since he’d first become Pack Alpha.

“Shut up, fuckers,” Laura snarled at Cora and Derek’s doubting looks, “I practically raised you!”

Suddenly, Peter knew exactly why the Council had butted in on him as much as they had. He had never, not once, seriously considered himself a Pack Leader to the full extent of the title. He’d operated in survival mode all these years, doing his damnedest to keep the pack afloat, just keep them all alive, and do it long enough for a real Pack Leader to come along and take over.

Peter did what he had to do to allow them to survive, but he’d never shifted gears enough to flourish and thrive, despite the pack reaching that pivotal point who-knew how long ago. He’d been stuck, and he’d managed to trap Derek and Malia, and to a lesser extent Isaac, right along with him.

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t trust you with my pup,” Derek said levelly, “I’m just saying I have some concerns that need addressing first,”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

They had thought Malia’s presentation as omega had drawn the Council’s attention. Peter was beginning to think they’d had it well before then. And they couldn’t even be pissed at the smarmy bastards over it, because it looks like they were right.

Peter looked around the room and knew, expectations aside, he had pulled it off. He’d done it.

He’d found mates for all three omegas under his watch, plus one for himself. He’d done the bare minimum and met the demands the Council placed on him. And somehow, apparently without trying, he’d managed to give them all a chance at happiness along the way, rekindled a relationship with an estranged pack in LA, and built another from the ground up with the pack in San Diego.

“You guys only live five hours away,” Alison mused aloud, “I can come babysit every now and then. Maybe not every weekend, but semi-regular like, I think.”

Derek eyed her for a moment, then shrugged, “Cool.”

“Cool!?” Laura shrieked.

“Sibling status trumps Auntie privileges,” Derek shot Peter an amused side-eye, “You’ve been saying a variation of that since we were kids,”

“Fact!” Cora crowed.

Peter watched Laura launch a coffee table coaster at her sister’s head and wondered how he’d gotten here. He hadn’t been this comfortable in his own home since his sister had been alive.

His mind was still busy exploring this new perspective when Stiles came to him.

“Hey, wolfman,” the omega said casually as he balanced on the arm of Peter’s chair.

“Hey,” he said distractedly.

Stiles forced his attention away from his latest epiphany by waving his phone under Peter’s nose and whispering in his ear. “Isaac took another picture of me, but I had him text it to me instead of you. Want to see?”

Peter leaned away from the omega carefully, eyeing him like he was a viper. “You’d really tease me like that when we’re still hours away from doing anything about it?”

Stiles shrugged innocently, “I mean, you just looked like you could use a bit of distraction, is all…”

Peter snorted.

The omega pouted, tapping the phone on his chin.

“Keep sticking that lip out, Stiles, and I’m likely to bite it,”

Stiles grinned, “Promise?”

Then he flipped the phone around and showed Peter the picture. It was, of course, Stiles, but there was no indecent expanses of skin or tauntingly low-slung briefs in sight. He was fully clothed, laying on his stomach on a twin bed, completely ignoring the camera. There was a smudge of black on his cheek, and a paintbrush in his hand, poised over the half-finished sigils on Peter’s Burning Bowl.

It made Peter pause. He leaned closer and really looked.

In the picture, the light turned the tips of Stiles’ hair fiery, and his eyes almost seemed to glow like embers. The omega’s tongue was caught between his teeth and his brow creased in concentration, his expression intense and serious.

“Besides the fact your gift was in the shot,” Stiles explained flippantly, “I didn’t really think it was worth sending you, I mean… I kinda look like a mess anyway. But Isaac kept saying you’d love it.”

Of course Peter loved it. It was a sneak peak at the serious and dangerously capable side of Stiles that he hadn’t much opportunity to experience yet. There was no awkward flirtation or hyperactive randomness. No, but Peter could see the focus and determination the boy had clearly exhibited as he worked. If he wasn’t fooling himself, he thought some of the light in those pictured eyes was hint of literal magic too.

What Peter wouldn’t have given to be in the room when this picture was taken.

He turned the phone off and gripped Stiles’ wrist firmly as he met his eye. “Tonight, once you’re allowed to have my number, you’re going to send that to me.”

Stiles’ gaze flickered between Peter’s eyes and the hand trapping his wrist. His heartbeat stuttered.

“Maybe the next time you exercise that spark,” Peter continued, his fingertip stroking Stiles’ pulse point, “You can let me watch,”

Stiles swallowed and his scent went honeyed and warm. His voice dropped low and he whispered, “I uh… Disclaimer, y’know… there’s not really anything like… like remotely sexual about magic.”

“Except that it’s you doing it,” Peter murmured back.

Stiles’ pupils blew up and his smile was sneaky and hesitant, “… yeah?”

“On that note,” Noah said loudly, from directly behind Peter’s chair.

Stiles jumped a foot in the air and landed a good few paces away. Peter could relate, for a moment he’d truly forgotten anyone else was there also.

“Anyone who needs to prepare anything for this show to get started should probably get moving.” Noah continued in a more level, though direct, tone.

“That means you,” Lydia said sharply. She hopped off the couch and looped her arm through Stiles’, then proceeded to march him out of the room.

Cheekily, Stiles shot Peter a wink and blew him a kiss, then he was gone.

Over the next two hours, the rest of the San Diego pack showed up, as did Deucalion and Malia. Peter wasn’t the only one relieved to see Malia in the driver’s seat of the rental car, no Marin Morrell in sight.

The front lawn was crowded with vehicles, and Peter and Chris enlisted Jordan and Boyd’s help in unloading the hellhound’s truck of all of Stiles’ worldly possessions. Mostly, they just dumped the handful of cardboard boxes in the empty room that used to be Isaac’s. Peter hadn’t thought Stiles, a college junior living in his father’s home, would have so much to unpack, but he apparently had a few things from his mother’s family along with a rather impressive library and comic book collection, not to mention all the gaming systems, electronic and otherwise, that Noah insisted would only collect dust at his place.

Peter balked at the giant bean bag chair, but Jordan had forced it into his arms and told him to take it up with Stiles if there wasn’t room for it.

A three-foot tall sculpture of indeterminate origin and worth, but distinctly hideous features, was similarly plunked on the front porch when Laura refused to let it in the house. Hayden and Liam insisted Stiles would want it and bore them to death about its history and meaning. Apparently, the omega had an unnecessarily large number of historical druid-inspired art works that Peter was going to need to burn and claim never made it out of Scott’s garage in the first place.

He and Laura were on the porch, quietly discussing how they could get rid of the goblin-esque statue without hurting Stiles’ feelings, when Deaton arrived.

“Impressive,” Deaton announced himself with an impressed air.

Peter and Laura jumped and whirled. They hadn’t heard the sneaky bastard coming up the drive. Naturally, the emissary didn’t seem to have traveled by car either. It was a classic spooky-Deaton maneuver.

The druid was unphased by their startlement, his attention on Stiles’ statue. “My, Peter. You certainly do have a knack for surprising us. How did you get a hold of a Priapus totem? They’re not exactly common on this continent.”

Peter and Laura shared a look, then turned incredulous stares to Deaton and the statue.

“A… Priapus totem?” Laura asked doubtfully.

Deaton leaned close to the statue, touching it gently, and nodded. “Yes. Definitely. Where did you get it?”

“Stiles,” the alphas said in tandem.

Deaton blinked. “Well then.”

“Is that a good ‘well then,’ or a concerned ‘well then,’ Alan?” Peter asked snidely.

Deaton graced them with a tiny smile, “Good. This is a valuable piece to someone with the magic and knowledge to use it. It should protect the land it rests on from most ecological threats and make the soil healthy and fertile.” He considered the statue with a solemn introspective nod, “Perhaps your omega might make a decent emissary after all.”

“Damn,” Laura muttered as Deaton disappeared into the house. “Now we have to keep it, don’t we.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, wrinkling his nose at the ugly thing as if it stank as bad as it looked.

Privately though, he felt a fierce pride bubbling in his chest that Stiles was already forcing Deaton to take him seriously, and they hadn’t even brought up the matter of an apprenticeship with the man yet. But that was a discussion for another day.

“Come on,” Laura elbowed him in the side and jerked her head toward the door. “Let’s get you shackled to that omega.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but followed her inside without argument. He had a feeling he’d be wearing his bonds to Stiles quite gleefully, thanks.

Scott and Noah were waiting for them in the hall between the door to the backyard and the kitchen.

“Cheers!” Scott said goofily, holding up a two shot glasses that smell like alcohol and distilled wolvesbane, of the expensive variety. “True Moonshine, courtesy of the Sheriff!”

Laura accepted took the shot giddily and she and Scott clinked glasses before tossing them back.

Peter gave an impressed smirk and a raise of his brow as he accepted the glass that smelled of wolf poison of the two the Sheriff was holding.

“Hey,” Noah shrugged as if sharing one of the richest drinks known to wolves were no big deal, “It’s not every day my only son gets mated, you know. Consider it a congratulatory gift. Or maybe a commiseration gift, once all’s said and done.”

Peter chuckled darkly, “Congratulations accepted.”

Following Laura’s example, Peter met Noah’s glass with the rim of his own and swallowed the shot. It burned deliciously and flooded him with instant warmth and sharpened his senses to the nines. It was the sort of hard-hitting effect that could be dangerous if overindulged.

“I let Boyd and Erica have a shot, too.” Noah admitted, “If they’re not twenty-one, I don’t want to know about it,”

“Fair enough,” Peter said, rolling his head on his shoulders to enjoy the rush of intoxication. 

“Alright!” Laura cheered, slinging an arm over her uncle’s shoulders, “Let’s do this!”

She, Derek and Cora had insisted on decorating the back yard. Peter hadn’t objected, even though he hadn’t really seen the point for a ten-minute ceremony. Stepping outside there for the first time all day, he was momentarily struck speechless at the result of his surviving family’s attentiveness.

The sun was just beginning to set, lending just enough darkness for the white spring lights decorating the surrounding trees to shine like the leaves were dosed in glitter. Someone had dug out Talia’s old bronze tiki torches and hung white and gold garlands from them, framing the yard in a wide half circle. In the center of the décor lay a perfect circle of ivy and rose petals.

It would have been surreal even without the alcohol and moonshine dialing up his senses and making his head just the slightest bit floaty. Peter let Laura steer him toward the circle with a numb sort of understanding, but it wasn’t until he stepped inside it that he fully appreciated being on this side of things for a change.

His foot crossed the line of rose and ivy and a trickle of magic hummed throughout his body. It felt like earth and wolf and home. It felt like pack.

He smelled Stiles then, sweet and anxious and inviting. Like a compass to the north, Peter spun around to look at him, and if he hadn’t been half hard all week he would have been then.

He’d actually put a lot of time and thought into imagining what Stiles might wear to their mating. He didn’t seem the type to go shirtless, if his baggy tees and overshirts were any indication. Similarly, Peter couldn’t see him wearing a strapless top as Malia had, and he was far too sentimental to simply take the bite through his regular clothing. Peter had imagined wistfully that maybe Stiles would be honoring his druid heritage and aspirations, and elect to do the whole thing nude. He’d know it was wishful thinking, but couldn’t help himself from imagining just the same.

In reality, Stiles wore a silky blood red robe, and hot damn but he looked just as good as if he’d been naked. The robe ended just above the knee, and as the omega’s bare feet stepped onto the grass Peter had the wild thought that maybe, just maybe, he was naked after all. Stiles took another step, flashing a bit of creamy white thigh, and Peter’s half-hard cock made the final leap to full-mast.

His omega joined him the circle and Peter grabbed him by the waist and hauled him close.

“You perfect creature,” he whispered into his ear, minding his manners as Natalie and Deaton took their places nearby.

Stiles blushed beautifully and bit at his bottom lip. They were pressed close, close enough that Peter felt a little shiver run through the boy.

“Nervous?” he asked softly, stroking Stiles’ arm.

He shook his head, “No. It’s just… I didn’t expect to feel anything. And there’s… the magic, it’s…” his voice waivered and he cleared his throat. His next words were whispered with awe and fear, “Peter, I think I can feel the pack. I don’t want to feel it when…”

“Sh,” Peter rested his forehead on Stiles’ and took two deep, calming breaths. “I’ve got you,”

Stiles rubbed their foreheads together gently. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Ready to start, guys?” Scott asked, voice thick with emotion already.

“Ye- ugh. Wait. Peter?” Stiles pulled back enough to meet Peter’s eye.

Peter smiled patiently, “Yes, Stiles?”

“I love you.”

And Peter stilled. Everything, his heart, his lungs, his brain, froze for one stunned moment. Time only resumed in the next heartbeat as he realized he believed the omega.

“I never really got around to saying it back when you did, and then it never seemed like the right time. I mean, I wasn’t gonna say it over _Scott’s phone_ —!"

Peter silenced him with a finger on those rambling lips, and smiled at Stiles while he told Scott: “Get a move on, McCall, so I can kiss this silly boy.”

And as Stiles’ scent went warm and pleased and impossibly sweeter, Scott began the mating ceremony.

He was sure Scott took a fistful of sands from Natalie, it must have happened right in the corner of his eye. He honestly wasn’t paying attention. His focus was trained on Stiles, on the cool silk of the robe against his hands and the firm, slender flesh beneath it. His eyes remained locked on Stiles’ honey-amber eyes and their wealth of nervous excitement and eagerness. Those eyes blinked rapidly and Peter saw the individual grains rolling down his face and he felt the tingle of it on his own as the sand landed on them.

Peter didn’t feel anything magical. All he felt was the darling in his arms tremble violently, long fingers gripping Peter’s arms with bruising strength as his chest heaved with a sharp inhale. The trembling continued, the heaving breaths didn’t.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Peter whispered, staring deep into watery amber eyes.

Stiles gave a sharp nod and let the air out in a shaky hiss. His grip on Peter only tightened.

Deaton’s voice rang out, strong and sure: “With the magic and authority of the Council, we bless this mating and welcome omega Stiles Stilinski into the Pack.”

Peter was only vaguely aware of the two druids walking the circle around them. They didn’t matter, not when his omega was falling to pieces right in front of him, in such desperate need.

A single tear escaped Stiles’ eye.

Deaton and Natalie finished their tracing of the circle, and Peter gasped as the pack magic inherent in the ceremony lit him up like he’d swallowed fireworks. What had been a casual, comforting tingle became a roaring explosion of magical intent.

It told him to bite. To claim and mark and _own_.

So Peter did.

He yanked on the sleeve of that flimsy robe, and before his eyes had the chance to notice the moles and smooth, perfect skin, his mouth was already there. Warm, velvety skin against his tongue and the satisfying thickness of muscle clamped in his teeth, the taste of blood and the feel of all that supple, young flesh against his body and beneath his hands.

His. All his.

In his ear, he could hear Stiles crying out in shock and delight. The body trapped in his arms writhed and grew hot and sweet for him. Ready for him. Slick for him.

His omega. His mate.

The pack’s magic rallied around them in celebration. No, not just the magic, but the pack itself. Howls rent the air, and Peter wanted to howl too, to proclaim his victory and warn the world that this was his, his mate and his pack and his, his, _his_. The only reason he didn’t was because doing so would mean letting go of that delicious mouthful, and he wasn’t quite ready yet.

Not yet. Not until—Yes!

“Alpha! Alpha, please!” Stiles whined, oh-so-sweet and needy.

Someone broke the circle then, and the magic backed off enough for Peter to get his wolf instincts more-or-less under control. He unhinged his jaw and pulled back to see Stiles staring up at him with bright, feverish eyes, half of his naked chest exposed where the robe had fallen away. Peter caught sight of one perky brown nipple.

To the cheers and taunts of his pack, Peter threw Stiles over his shoulder and ran for the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean... it's not exactly a cliffhanger if you know what's coming next, right? No uncertainty here, but I sure hope I amped up the excitement enough. Hehehehehe....


	19. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Here be smut! If you don't care much for explicit sex scenes, you could go ahead and skip this entire chapter (though you might want to reconsider your choices in fanfic genres, lol) ;)

The bedroom door slammed shut and with one effortless toss, Peter finally put his omega where he belonged. In. His. Bed.

Stiles bounced once and giggled, a little breathless with anticipation. He shimmied backward, a teasing grin on his flushed face as he backed up to the headboard. He smelled like slick and heaven, and looked like sin personified.

“I’m going to wreck you, omega,” Peter promised as he planted his hands on the bed and stalked him across it.

In reply, the omega grinned and slowly slid those long, lean legs open in invitation.

Peter wasn’t about to refuse. He took Stiles’ nearest ankle in hand and gave it a playful tug that made the boy’s breath hitch. Then he dragged his palm up the leg, appreciating the smooth, white skin and slender muscle. His fingers clenched greedily as they crept up his inner thigh and pushed the robe up. All he felt was skin, hot and bare, all the way up. The robe bunched over Peter’s wrist and just as his fingertips neared the crease of his hip the scent of slick thickened in the air.

Stiles reached for the tie of his robe with shaking fingers, his heart racing in Peter’s ears. The tie undone, he paused and chewed his lip in sudden apprehension.

Peter growled, low and hungry and encouraging.

Lip still caught in his teeth, Stiles gave a bashful grin. He flung the robe open before he lost his nerve.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Peter whispered, awed.

Stiles wasn’t naked under the robe. A scrap of navy silk and red trim sat low on his hips, straining over the bulge of his cock. Reclined as he was, Stiles gave a clear view of the wet patch beneath the outline of his package.

“I ugh…” Stiles squirmed, blushing hotly, “I had to wear something… I’ve sort of been leaking like a faucet all day…. Woah,”

Stiles went silent as Peter fitted his hands under him to get a good feel for his ass through the silk. He squeezed, enjoying the needy whine it caused, then dragged his hands to the sides of his boy’s slender hips to hook his fingers in the waistband.

He caught Stiles’ eye and smirked. “Ready?”

Stiles licked his lips, then gave a jerky nod. “Yeah. Definitely.”

He lifted his hips helpfully and Peter slid the panties down and it was like he’d pulled the pin on a grenade. Instantly, the scent of slick released into the room, unfiltered and almost alarmingly strong. Good God, but it was a good thing he’d worn something, clearly something omega-specific, because it would have been entirely indecent to smell like that in public.

No. This….This was for Peter only.

“Fuck…” Peter growled, watching Stiles’ pretty cock twitch excitedly and his perfect hole leak.

Stiles made a strangled sound and wriggled his arms out of the robe. “Peter, come on. Don’t just stare. Please—”

“You,” Peter cut him off, eyes flashing red, “are so beautiful. Right here,”

Stiles gasped loudly as Peter’s finger ran up the length of his cock. Peter had never bedded an omega before, but he’d seen his fair share of porn and he was confident his boy was on the larger end of the scale for his dynamic. He had nothing next to an alpha like himself, of course, but he fit comfortably in Peter’s hand all the same, the length just enough for the head to peak out of his fist.

He gave it a squeeze and Stiles whined. “Ah! Peter!?”

“So beautiful,” Peter repeated, swiping his thumb over the head.

Stiles’ leg twitched, and his slick gushed with an audible wet sound. “Please,” Stiles chanted, borderline panicky, “please, please, please, _please_.”

“My beautiful boy,” Peter murmured as his other hand left Stiles’ thigh so he could play in all that wetness. He was so drenched that Peter’s fingers slipped over his perineum with unexpected speed.

They both moaned, and Peter couldn’t stop himself; his fingers sought out the source of the flood and he slid right in. Two fingers, right away. Stiles’ body took it easily, and the clench and velvety ripple of his insides was incredible. Peter had to get his cock in there immediately. 

“You’re so ready for me, sweetheart,” Peter said, the thoughts spewing from his mouth as they occurred to him.

“More, more. Please, Peter,” Stiles pleaded.

Peter managed to tear his eyes away from what his hands were doing to glance up at the boy’s desperate expression. Along the way, he saw the peaks of his nipples, hard and flushed, and it was like a beacon to Peter; without warning, he dived down on the omega and latched on with lips and tongue.

Stiles bowed off the bed and started putting the sound proofing walls to the test.

Peter worked one nub with his teeth and the taste of Stiles’ sweat and skin was like an appetizer wetting his pallet. Lower down, Peter wiggled a third finger into the omega’s hole as he suckled on his nipple. God, but he was opening up so nicely, and if Peter wasn’t so desperate with the lingering impressions of the pack magic to mate and claim, he’d be down there in a heartbeat, eating him out till he was sobbing.

There would be time for that later.

For now, Peter satisfied himself with switching over to the other nipple and fitting his pinky into Stiles’ hot little hole.

“Peter, Peter, Peter!” Stiles panted, hands yanking at Peter’s shirt and slapping at what he could reach of the alpha’s belt. He was utterly ineffective at his flailing attempts, and the pseudo-heat from the pack magic wasn’t helping his coherency, but it didn’t matter.

Peter got the message. He reared back, his fingers slipping free, and was momentarily distracted by the sight of Stiles’ teats, swollen and reddened, with the surrounding skin irritated from Peter’s facial hair.

Stiles smacked his arm, whining with need and mounting impatience.

Properly scolded, Peter nearly tore his own shirt off before shucking his pants and boxer briefs in one go. His cock sprang up with an over eager bob, and the movement ached with how hard he was.

Stiles gave a strangled, almost terrified groan. When Peter looked up, he saw him staring at his cock with round and apprehensive eyes. His blush flared and he glanced from his own body to Peter’s cock with an unreadable, gaping expression.

Peter gripped his boy’s thighs just about the knees and squeezed. “Alright, love?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I just… fuck,” Stiles rubbed a hand over his face and whispered shakily: “It’s never gonna fit,”

Peter couldn’t help it; he chuckled. “We’ll fit just fine, sweetheart.”

Stiles shook his head, hand still over his mouth and eyes trained on Peter’s cock. “Nope. There’s no way.”

Peter rolled his eyes as he cupped his hands beneath those slayed thighs and unceremoniously hoisted the boy’s lower body into his lap.

Stiles slid down the bed, flat on his back with a loud “Eeep!”

Then Peter was the one getting loud as his cock and thighs were smeared with slick. He held tight to Stiles’ waist, so small and vulnerable between his hands, and jerked his hips to rub his aching cock against the boy. His alpha cock slid effortlessly through Stiles’ mess, the heft and length rubbing clear over the omega’s hole and tight little balls. Over and over.

“Oh my God!” Stiles wailed, and it was like he couldn’t decide if he was appalled or so into it that he couldn’t think straight. The scent of sex and sweet omega need never weakened, so Peter didn’t dwell on it.

Peter was panting. The easy glide of their bodies against each other, so very perfect and smooth, was wonderfully wet and warm thanks to all that slick. The sight of it was almost as good, with Peter’s red cock pushing against Stiles’ flesh in insistent pulses.

But it wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t what they both needed.

It was torture to put a little space between them, but Peter managed so he could fit all four fingers back inside that hungry hole. Stiles let him back in with a gasping moan and zero resistance, no mater the snugness.

“You’re ready, baby.” Peter announced as he pulled free once more.

Stiles tossed his head from side to side, “No. No. Not ready. It’ll never fit.”

Peter gripped the boy’s chin with slick-smeared fingers and forced him still to meet his eye. “You are,” he assured him, “Trust me, sweet boy, you are _perfectly_ made for this. But if it ever hurts, you let me know and we’ll stop, okay?”

“I…” Stiles shivered and he arched to bare his throat. “I trust you, alpha.”

Oh, but he was so perfect. The frantic squirming ceased and his shoulders relaxed into the mattress as he submitted fully, the very picture of the traditionally meek and sweet omega darling he wasn’t. Well, maybe he was. In this room, for Peter only, maybe he was.

There was no hint of fear in his scent as Peter lined up, only anticipation and need.

“That’s my good omega,” Peter whispered hotly as he began to press in. He held his own breath at the tight squeeze, till the bulb of his head popped through.

Stiles mewled, high and sweet. His knees pressed into Peter’s sides and he jerked the slightest bit.

Peter petted the stretch of skin between the sharp shadows of his hip bones soothingly. “Perfect. See, Stiles, just like I told you; you were made for me,”

He fed him the rest of his cock in slow, shallow thrusts. Peter watched, mesmerized, as Stiles took him inch by inch. The pink rim of him stretched taut and shiny around his girth and the alpha thought he’d never seen nor felt anything so incredible.

“Okay.” Stiles murmured nonsensically to no one, “Okay. This is happening. It’s…. really… Oh, God, this is… Wow. Okay…”

By the time Peter’s hips were flush with Stiles’ ass, the omega was shaking with an overwhelmed need. His cock twitched between them, hard and brilliantly flushed. His fingers dug into Peter’s arms like he didn’t know what to do with them and his ankles locked together behind Peter’s back.

“That’s it,” Peter’s voice was husky and delighted as he whispered thoughtlessly. “That’s my omega. So wet and tight for me. So good.”

He rolled his hips in tight circles, pressing his cock into every hidden corner deep inside his mate. Stiles gasped loudly and spasmed around him, his cock leaking appreciatively.

“Yeah, you’re taking me like a dream, sweetheart.”

Stiles wasn’t listening to him though. He trembled as his skull rolled against the mattress, bonelessly loose and unconcerned. Those big eyes blinked rapidly up at Peter, glazed and needful, his breaths hard and loud. His legs and fingers and hole clenched at the alpha frantically, demanding things his mind didn’t fully understand.

Of course. Peter shuddered with the delightful reminder that Stiles had never done this before. He’d never had a cock where he needed it, never been filled the way his body craved. Never before. He’d never taken a knot.

He was new and lovely and so very clearly overwhelmed.

Peter shifted them, pushing with hips and hands till Stiles’ ass was no longer on his thighs, but the bed and his slender body was under Peter’s properly. He braced his forearm by Stiles’ ear, catching that tossing head in a soothing hand. His other hand went to Stiles’ knee and began a long, slow drag all the way up his body.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured as he showered Stiles’ face and throat with kisses. “I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry. Just feel me.”

Stiles pressed his head into Peter’s hand, groaning as he squeezed his eyes shut and bared his newly marked throat to his mate. His slender arms circled Peter’s upper back and held on with all his might.

Peter ducked his head to lick at the mating bite, washing away the blood and sweat. As he did so, he kept up the soothing passes of his hand over the long line of flesh from his omega’s shoulder all the way to his knee.

Beautifully submissive, Stiles relaxed into Peter’s attentions and his trembling eased. He still held tight, arms and legs locked around the alpha with desperate strength.

Peter nuzzled under his ear and cooed, “Good omega.”

Stiles replied with a nervous giggle. When Peter lifted his head, he found amber eyes staring up at him, heavy-lidded and glittering with a bashful sort of excitement.

Peter grinned wickedly and began rolling his pelvis in slow and deliberate thrusts.

He watched as Stiles’ eyes and mouth opened wide in pleasure. His arms and legs tightened. His cock jumped and bounced off Peter’s abs. Peter’s next withdrawal was accompanied by an obscene squelch of slick as the boy’s hole squeezed like he was trying to keep him inside.

“Yeah,” Peter growled, pressing back in with more force, “Yeah, you’re good. You’re so good.”

Stiles was stunned silent, reveling in the unique pleasure of an omega finally having his needs properly satisfied. It took so very little, all Peter had to do was thrust and hold him, and before long the beautiful boy was gracing him with sweet, choked little cries and simpering moans.

“Fuck,” Peter groaned as Stiles’ heels dug into his lower back.

The way his omega’s back arched seemed just like he was offering his pretty teats up to be devoured. Peter was a selfish, greedy bastard sometimes, and as he bit and nibbled from one peak to the next he mindlessly drove his cock in a fast pounding rhythm.

Stiles wailed.

God, but he felt like heaven. Peter was never going to be able to touch himself after this, not now that his cock knew what it felt like to be wrapped in all that hot, tight, wetwetwet flesh.

“Ah! Ah!” Stiles let out a series of short, stuttering cries, punched out of him with every jab of Peter’s cock inside him. “Aaaahhhh!”

Stiles’ cock spurted powerfully between them, and Peter growled as he felt the splatter hit all the way to his chest. It was time to finish this.

“I… wha—ugh!” Stiles groaned, and the sound was confused but not unhappy.

Atop him, Peter threw his body into a punishing rhythm that rocked the entire bed and shocked Stiles silent. He buried his face in Stiles’ throat, breathing in the scent of his sweetness and the lingering blood from his mating bite. For the first time since he was a newly-presented teen, Peter felt his knot start to expand.

Stiles jerked in alarm. His fingers scrambled for purchase on Peter’s shoulders and he whimpered even as his scent sweetened with rekindling arousal.

Peter rubbed his faced against the bite and growled as he fucked the knot in and out.

“P-Pete-Peter!?” Stiles cried, tugging at his hair in a mild panic. “Is… is that… Oh!”

Peter’s hips slowed as it became harder to work the knot past Stiles’ rim. Still, even slow, he managed to pull it loose and squeeze back in three more times before Stiles began shaking and pleading.

“Please! Please, Peter!” he whined, “Too much! Peter, I… I need… I don’t… I _can’t_! Argh! _Please_!?”

“You can,” Peter promised through a mouthful of fang.

Their bodies rocked as he braced his knees wider and really put his weight behind the final thrust. They both groaned as the knot inflated past the point of no return.

The pack magic lingering about them positively _sang_.

Stiles gasped, sounding amazed, “Peter…?”

“You’re ours now,” Peter answered with a groan as the knot grew a bit more, “Pack,”

Stiles gave a quiet, thrilled little laugh, and it made his insides thrum with vibration. He cut himself off with a choked moan.

“Mmm,” Peter gnawed on the boy’s neck gently, sharp teeth tickling along vulnerable skin.

Stiles stilled and arched carefully into his mouth. Such a perfect, submissive omega.

Confident the knot was full and settled, Peter rubbed their pelvises together in a slow grind. He gave a deep, animalistic rumble of pleasure as he felt Stiles’ body accommodate him.

“Wait!” Stiles cried, tensing wonderfully. “Peter! Peter, I can’t—”

“You can,” Peter repeated, keeping up the motion as he began to orgasm, “You can take it. My mate. Take it.”

Stiles gave up with a doubtful groan.

Peter wasn’t worried though. Stiles' scent was sweet and warm and his cock was hard and eager between them. Those long fingers rubbed over Peter’s shoulders, nervous and excited in equal measure. He whined and shifted with discomfort that quickly turned to senseless need.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Stiles whined frantically, panting and hungry again just in time for Peter to finish coming inside him. 

The boy tried to rock into Peter’s lazy hip roll, and all it achieved was a sharp yank on the knot that was only pleasurable for Peter. Stiles gasped in pain and his eyes watered a little.

“Easy,” Peter scolded gently. He dropped the weight of his lower body to effectively pin the omega down. “Let me take care of you,”

Stiles whimpered and pawed at Peter’s chest.

Peter kissed the pout off those precious lips and licked into his mouth greedily when the omega opened to him. He distracted him with the mouth action, and when Peter was confident he’d stay still, he slid a hand between them.

Stiles’ cock was hard and hot in his grasp.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d knotted. Generally speaking, most alphas didn’t do it without an omega partner once puberty ended and settled their hormones and mating instincts. He wasn’t sure how long they’d remained tied.

So he kept his touch light. Promising but not yet fulfilling. He drew it out. And so long as Stiles was good and relaxed for him, he even stirred the knot inside him, giving them both a spark of wonderful lightening up their spines with the shifting pressure.

When the knot began to shrink some twenty minutes later, Peter stopped fooling around.

“Oh! Oh! Yeah! Please! Please!”

Peter laughed. It was adorable and painfully endearing the way Stiles kicked and whined while he tried so hard to stay still.

“Gah-ah!”

The alpha curled two fingers around his omega’s cock and pressed his thumb into his taint just as he pulled his knot free. Stiles came immediately and beautifully, and this time around Peter was able to fully appreciate the sight.

Damn, but his omega was a mess. A wet, well satiated mess.

Peter wanted to lick him clean.

Sadly, Stiles looked wrung out and in no shape to tolerate another lengthy session. Peter reminded himself that they had an entire future to get around to all sorts of fun. For now, he placed a kiss on his boy’s hip and went to start him a bath.

By the time he’d hosed himself down, thrown a bath bomb (courtesy of Erica) into the hot water and made it back to the bedroom, Stiles had rolled over and fallen into a light snooze.

Peter walked his fingers up one pale leg that ended with a gentle pat to his pretty rump. “Up you get, sweetheart. Bath time,”

Stiles mumbled something incomprehensible into the pillow he was hugging.

“Come on. You could use a soak in something other than your own bodily fluids.”

This got one drowsy eye to open and look at him. “Not just mine.”

Peter loomed over him and said sweetly, “Mine can stay where I put it. Yours needs cleaning.”

Turns out, Stiles’ blush reached all the way down his chest.

“Oh my god.” The omega groaned wretchedly into the pillow. “You can’t just say things like that, you perv!”

Peter eyed the long line of his boy’s naked body. There was no one around to stop him, and even if there had, they’d no longer have any right; with a self-satisfied grin that probably bordered on manic, Peter got himself a nice handful of omega ass.

Stiles’ groan turned into a short squeal and his glute flexed before relaxing and pushing back into the touch. Lovely, so lovely.

“Actually, this perv can say _and do_ whatever he likes to you now.” With that filthy reminder, Peter scooped the omega up in his arms and carried him to the bathroom.

“Yeah, you can,” Stiles snickered, cozy and relaxed in his hold.

“I _will_ ,” Peter promised with a leer.

Then he dumped the brat in the tub.

Stiles sputtered and blew bubbles out of his face. “Rude! We were having a moment, Peter! _A moment_!”

“And there will be plenty more to come,” Peter blew him a kiss as he backed away, “Enjoy your bath while I change the sheets. And you better be clean when I get back, so I can dirty you up again.”

Stiles hid his blush behind a pile of bubbles. “I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered with mock petulance.

Peter made quick work of the bedspread and made it back in time to see Stiles leaning over the edge of the tub to admire the fresh wound where his neck met shoulder in the mirror.

“Hmm,” Peter hummed appreciatively from the doorway. “It looks good on you,”

Stiles sat back into the water with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You have to say that, it’s _yours_.”

“Yes, it is,” Peter replied smugly.

Stiles swished the bubbles around the water’s surface and watched the effect studiously. “So…” he said slowly, with a disinterest that was blatantly false, “Are you just going to watch from there, like a creeperwolf, or are you going to join me?”

“Well,” Peter sighed, pretending to think about it, “I probably should have a real bath myself.”

Stiles sat up straight, cheeks pink and eyes bright. “Yeah. You should. You should let me wash you.”

Peter chuckled at the bald want on his omega’s face as he voiced the thinly veiled order. Really though, it wasn’t like Peter had any reason to refuse him. Smiling, he stepped over the tub’s ledge and slid into hot water and Stiles’ outstretched arms.

His smile fell away soon after though, because there was nothing funny about what happened next.

Stiles touched him with careful, sudsy hands and an intense expression on his face. Under the perfume of the bath bomb and clean soap, he smelled of something pure and warm and deep, an emotional imprint unlike any Peter was familiar with.

“I love you,” Stiles told him, gaze safely trained on where he was spreading soap over skin.

His long fingers mapped the contours of Peter’s upper body by feel just as his eyes did by sight. He traced the shadows of Peter’s deltoid and swept down to follow the bottom curve of his pec. With deep attentiveness, he rubbed his palms over his abs, then back up, over his chest and collar bones till those soapy hands covered both sides of Peter’s thick neck and his fingers dug in for a tiny preview of a massage. It was considerate. Loving. Honoring. 

Peter encased those skinny wrists in his own hands and held them there till Stiles met his eye.

“I love you too,” he whispered solemnly.

Stiles’ gave a him a tearful smile, and Peter thought he recognized happiness in that confoundingly complex scent of his.

“I’m going to be the _best_ omega and emissary for you,” Stiles said vehemently.

Peter grinned and promised just as fiercely, “And I will be the best alpha I can be for you,”

“Damn right,”

He kept any comments about being the best Pack Leader out of it. He wouldn’t lie to his mate. He hadn’t been born to his role, and the mantle would probably never sit quite right. For once, he figured that was just fine.

In that moment, he was certain, no matter the details, he was meant to have this precious boy. He kissed his omega deeply and it felt like destiny shining down on them.

He might had even felt a little magic at work.


	20. Twenty

A week later, Peter woke up to a mild sense of _wrongness_. His brain came fully awake the moment he put his finger on exactly what was so very irritatingly out of place.

Stiles was nowhere to be seen.

With a morose groan, Peter rolled to the edge of the bed, stretching as he did so. It was supremely dissatisfying after so many wonderful days waking up to Stiles’ soft snores and clinging limbs. The omega was an impressively deep sleeper and every bit as tactile and delicious smelling in sleep as he was throughout the day. Surprisingly, Peter found he didn’t mind the nighttime crowding. In fact, he rather enjoyed it.

It was startling how easily Peter had gotten used to sharing a bed. He was sure he’d slept a full night in his bed before, but this was the first week he’d done it so consecutively and in any recent memory. Turns out, sex and cuddles were a striking combination where restful nights were concerned.

Peter hadn’t been this happy in a long, long time.

It was the weekend again, with few responsibilities calling his attention, and he’d so dearly love to share that happiness with a lazy morning romp in the sheets. But here he was, lazing in bed alone. Omega-less.

The sense of wrongness and the ache of his morning wood drove him out of bed sooner rather than later. He slipped into the first pair of sweatpants he found and headed out without a shirt or underwear, fully intending to hunt his omega down and drag him back to bed.

It was Sunday. Stiles needed to learn that Sundays meant late morning and lazily sought orgasms.

“But--!”

“No.”

“Just a little—”

“No.”

“What about me?”

“No.”

“Erica, Cora. Leave him alone. This is a delicate matter and he needs to concentrate. Go on, big guy. You got this. I have complete faith in you…. Dude, you have some seriously expressive eyebrows.”

“Heh. That’s Derek-speak for ‘shut the hell up,’”

“Yeah. I can see that. Shutting up!”

Peter could hear the commotion clearly from the moment he opened his door. The sounds of teasing talk and humor were a curiosity that brought his arousal down to something acceptable in public areas of the house by the time he reached the kitchen. Not that it mattered. The closer he got, the heavier the scent of sugar and cream coated his nostrils, and not a single wolf nose lifted in his direction when he entered the room.

The betas were huddled together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the dining side of the breakfast bar. Over their heads, Peter could see Derek scowling down at the counter. The top tuft of Stiles’ hair was just visible over Cora’s shoulder, where the omega nearly had his face smooshed to the counter as he watched whatever Derek was doing with his hands.

For the life of him, Peter couldn’t imagine how _Derek_ could be more interesting to Stiles on a lazy Sunday morning than staying in bed for a rim job.

“What’s happening?” Peter asked, arms crossed over his chest grumpily.

Stiles’ grinning face popped up like a hyper gopher. “Hey! Morning, creeperwolf!”

At the same time, Derek made an unhappy grumble and lifted his gaze to glare at Peter.

“Morning, brat.” Peter replied, then nodded at Derek. “What’re you doing?”

He lifted one hand to show him the cracked mess of pastry and cream oozing over his fingers. He kept glaring at Peter angrily as he turned his hand to drop the confection with a sharp jerk of his wrist.

“Aw!” Cora commiserated half-heartedly, “That one was looking really good, too!”

Erica’s fingers crept toward the discarded pastry. “Bet it still tastes—”

Derek smacked her hand away. Hard. “No.”

“For the last time,” Stiles said, closing his eyes as if praying for patience, “It’s. Not. For. You.”

“Back off,” Derek agreed, scooping the ruined treat and a number of others closer to him with a protective glare.

She pouted at the omegas. “It’s not like you’re going to give those to him.”

Derek scowled and a high, quiet whine started in the back of his throat before being quickly cut off.

Stiles’ arm shot out with the roll of paper towels and whacked the blonde across the face.

“Ow!”

Peter figured he must be missing some subtext, because both Boyd and Cora burst into barely-stifled laughter. Omegas taking betas to task was hardly unusual around the Hale Pack. Maybe a human omega swatting a beta werewolf on the nose like a naughty pup _was_ admittedly unusual for them. Still, it hadn’t been that funny.

“That’s not the point!” Stiles huffed. “It’s a courting gift, between Derek and Chris. You have nothing to do with it, even as a taste tester!”

“Derek… are you _baking_?” Peter asked, amazed. It was one of those typical omega activities that Derek had steered clear of ever since Kate had taught him to consider such things as weak and pathetic. He hadn’t seen him so much as look at a muffin tray in well over a decade.

Predictably, Derek’s ears turned pink and he hunched, just a tad defensive, as he explained, “Chris likes them,”

Stiles landed a supportive pat of Derek’s shoulder blade, earning him his own targeted glare. “We’re making _religieuse_ ,” he said importantly, “Or rather, Derek is. I’m just coaching. It’s Chris’ favorite desert, and he hasn’t had it home-made since the last time he visited extended family in France.” 

Derek frowned down at the assorted religieuse rejects, almost all of them mishappen, cracked or crushed. A few looked intact, but the cream and frosting had turned them into rather ugly blobs.

“That’s… good.” Peter was aiming for encouraging, but he also didn’t want to be insulting optimistic.

“I’m just practicing,” Derek grumbled.

“Chris and Laura are painting the upstairs rooms at the cabin,” Stiles explained cheerily. “She promised she’d keep him away so he’d have time to make it a surprise.”

“I’m wasting my time.” Derek huffed. He tossed two pastries into the sink to go down the dish drainer.

Erica made a low, mournful whine.

“You’re really not,” Stiles assured him. “Chris is a sentimental shmuck, he’ll love the fact you baked him his favorite desert, even if it turned out inedible—which it’s not!”

“It smells great,” Boyd added helpfully.

“Exactly!”

“Okay, you three.” Peter bumped Boyd’s arm with his knuckles then gripped the girls by their napes. “Go find something to do. Let Derek have a little peace,”

Erica grumbled and Cora gave a resigned sigh, but they dutifully Boyd out of the room without comment.

Peter looked between the two omegas questioningly. “Think you have time to make another batch?”

Derek sighed, posture slumping in defeat.

“Hells yeah,” Stiles chirped. He poked Derek in the side hard enough to make him twitch. “Come on. You bought extra everything for this exact purpose. Dooooo iiiit!”

“I need to get mated.” Derek said gravely, meeting Peter’s eye. “I need to mate, so I can leave this house and get away from this twerp you’re punishing us with.”

Peter tapped the countertop next to the religieuse ruins. “Sounds like motivation to me,”

Stiles snickered, then realized how Peter implicitly agreed with Derek’s assessment. “Hey!”

Peter shrugged as he settled into Cora’s vacated seat. “You are a twerp.”

“I’m your mate! You should be defending me,”

“Yes. You are my mate,” Peter leaned across the bar and gave Stiles an appreciative once over, “You should be in bed, letting me have my way with you. And yet, here we are.”

Stiles pinked beautifully. As the smell of omega interest tinged the baked goods aroma, he opened his mouth to retort.

“Don’t be gross,” Derek griped as he turned around to put butter and water in a saucepan.

“Excuse you,” Stiles frowned at them both, hands on his hips.

Peter rubbed at his mouth and imagined his own hands on those hips. Unlike the week before, he now had the benefit of memory to aid him. Just the other day, he’d held him there, palms framing that perky ass while Peter fucking into him slow and deep.

A hot pan holder slapped him in the face.

“I said don’t be gross.”

Peter ultimately had to make like the betas and leave the kitchen. While Stiles did not find his leering and aroused scent ‘gross’, he did agree that Peter was a distraction Derek did not need at present. And so it was, that Stiles threw together a coffee with all the preferred fixings, and ordered Peter away with it.

He was disappointed Stiles had thwarted his plans for Sunday morning raunchiness, but at least the coffee was good. Knowing Stiles was having a positive, rather than terrifying, effect on Derek was better.

He was less impressed with the omegas spending time together when it continued to leave him omega-less and blue balled well into the afternoon.

“Christopher!” Peter shouted as he stomped through the front door of the cabin.

It was around 2 o’clock in afternoon, and while Laura, paint smears on her cheek and shirt, was perched on the sectional couch leaning over a steaming pizza box, Chris was not immediately in sight.

“Where is he?” Peter growled.

Laura took a bite of her pie slice and pointed toward the stairs.

“What can I do for you, Peter?” Chris said, sounding stiff and concerned as he came down said stairs.

His shirt had the sleeves cut off and was cover in paint splatters, though he seemed to have managed better than Laura, since his face was speckle-free, at least. He was wiping his hands on a spoiled cloth, hanging through his belt loop.

Peter blinked at the paint clinging to the hair on Chris’ forearm, briefly derailed, “Is that… pink?”

Chris shrugged. “More of a light purple.”

“Lilac,” Laura corrected through a mouthful of cheese. She sneered at Peter. “Are you color blind?”

“Whatever,” Peter rolled his eyes and pointing accusingly at Chris, “You. I need you to mate my nephew,”

Chris’ concerned air evaporated and his mouth twitched. “So you’ve said,”

“Immediately.” Peter specified, getting the impression Chris wasn’t taking him seriously, “I need him out of my house. He’s distracting my mate with his romance-induced angst.”

Laura laughed, a full-bellied sound that sent her tumbling backward into the cushions.

Peter flipped her the bird casually, earnest eyes on Chris.

Chris, clearly ignorant to the gravity of the situation, smirked and leaned into his elbow he braced on the balustrade. “I take it the honeymoon is over already? Don’t tell me your jealous of Derek.”

“It’s _Sunday_ ,” Peter whined, mature and composed in tone nevertheless, “It’s our first full weekend together, and my omega is spending all of it in pursuit of someone else’s mating. I am having a perfectly _reasonable_ reaction.”

Laura’s full laughter trickle down to a rolling giggle. It almost sounding like she was rhythmically choking around her words. “You… keep telling… yourself.”

“Enough out of you. I’m the Pack Alpha here, it’s your job to back me up.”

This apparently only galvanized Laura’s amusement. She dropped her second slice of pizza back into the box as she doubled over with laughter.

Peter pointed at her, looking at Chris quizzically. “Just what kind of paint are you using? Is she high?”

First Boyd and Cora, now Laura. And Derek was baking. Willingly. When Peter figured out who was drugging his pack, there would be hell to pay.

“Something like that,” Chris chuckled, patting Peter’s shoulder companionably as he passed. He bent over the coffee table to grab himself some food, and when he stood straight again, he gave Peter an unimpressed, if mused, once over.

“It’s been a good day,” Laura said by way of explanation, grinning as she retrieved her abandoned pizza once her mirth subsided.

“Speak for yourself,” Peter scoffed. “I haven’t been laid today.”

“Poor baby,” Laura cooed.

“Hey, now,” Chris smacked her shoulder with the back of his hand lightly. “You don’t know what it’s like to be newly mated and suddenly have that bubble of privacy and absorption burst the first time your omega gets distracted.”

“See,” Peter said victoriously, indicating Chris and his wisdom, “It’s no laughing matter,”

“Oh, it’s worth laughing at,” Chris corrected with a wide, sparkling grin, “It’s just not worth mocking. Take it from someone who knows what it’s like to be both a participant and a spectator.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Laura said snidely. “Omegas are a hassle. I have enough responsibility over the ones in the pack. I do not need one for a mate,”

“Worth it,” the two men said breezily.

Laura snickered at them.

“On a serious note,” Peter said, clearing his throat and stealing Laura’s discarded crust. He gave Chris a side eye and bit in right after saying: “I think Derek’s ready.”

The relaxed smiles vanished as they stared at him.

“… Really?” Laura said, beyond hopeful.

Chris lowered the food that had been nearing his mouth. Cautiously, he asked, “What makes you so sure?”

Peter took his time chewing, then answered enigmatically, “Reasons.”

Privately, Peter’s mind was sifting through all the little details that had been cropping up over the past eight months. All the cues Derek was broadcasting, now that Peter had been paying close attention, told him the omega had been interested in mating for a long, long time, but was finally warming up to the reality of mating enough to actively overcome the learned behaviors of his trauma. The signs were all there, from his easy acceptance of Chris’ courtship to the reintroduction of minor slick incorporated in his daily scent.

And now Derek was baking, willing subjecting himself to Stiles’ frenetic energy to do it properly. If that wasn’t a classic play by an omega instantly telling his alpha to get a move on, Peter didn’t know what was.

Peter caught Laura’s eye, and he knew she’d been walking that same path of thought since Derek asked her to get Chris out of the house. And now Peter had verbalized it. The relief in her eyes was just shy of turning tearful.

“So how about it?” Peter asked Chris and took another big bite of pizza crust.

Laura turned her whole body to similarly stare expectantly at the human alpha.

Pizza dropping, forgotten, in hand, Chris glanced between them rapidly. He was being put on the spot, sure, but they were also standing in the middle of the house he’d bought for this exact topic at hand. The answer was obvious.

“Okay,” Chris said easily enough after a moment of stunned silence. “Then I guess we need to talk details,”

“Okay,” Peter agreed, taking another bite and staring.

Chris stared back, and his look turned calculating as he caught up quick. “You haven’t officially invited me to join your pack yet.”

Peter shrugged, “I didn’t want to put pressure on you. I figured we’d address it eventually, in the same way we intend to proceed as packmates. If that’s what you wanted.”

Chris nodded, but his thoughts were clearly turned inward. Then, slowly, he repeated: “the way we intend to proceed as packmates…”

“Yes,” Peter could feel Laura watching them tensely from the edge of the couch as he spoke, “If you are pack, I won’t order you around the way I do the others, but at the same time, I obviously can’t make you my Second.”

If Chris were a wolf, it would be a nonissue. An alpha wolf was either a Pack Leader or was submissive in the hierarchy to the Pack Alpha. That’s how Peter and Laura worked, how all Pack Leaders worked. Deucalion and his historically alpha-only pack worked the same way.

Chris, as a human, could not compete in dominance games with wolves, nor would he have any interest in doing so. Similarly, he would have no animal instinct to rely on to determine his fit within the pack, only the alpha instincts that would give him a measure of authority over any omega, wolf or human. The betas of the pack would give him the respect and honor they each found appropriate. Given than Chris was a retired Hunter and a good twenty plus years their senior, this was nearly as much a none issue as if he were a wolf.

The only potential problem was Peter. There could only be one Pack Alpha. Laura—alpha wolves in general—understood that innately. Human alphas had to choose it consciously. Fortunately, a healthy Pack Alpha was as much man as wolf.

So they had to come to terms as men. As alpha humans.

“That’s fair,” Chris said calmly, and Peter was glad the man had so much experience with werewolves, that he could trust him to understand all the subtext they were addressing. “I don’t plan on telling you what to do or how to run your pack, Peter, but I’m trusting you to lean on me when you need advice. I might not be your Second, but I’ve got experience and knowledge Laura will never have. I won’t be undervalued. No offense, Laura,”

“None taken,” she said readily, getting to her feet.

“Or course not,” Peter agreed, “You’ve been looking out for me and this pack in some fashion for as long as I’ve been Pack Alpha. I hope that doesn’t change. Just… moving forward, let’s keep any scolding or outright disagreements to my office, where we can address it privately.”

Chris nodded, “Without disturbing the pack,”

“Exactly.”

Peter was confident that was a line he could walk. Chris would not openly defy him in front of the pack and risk making them doubt Peter’s leadership, and in return Peter would respect and adhere to him for the guidance he always had when they’d operated as equals on opposite sides of the Council’s balancing scales.

It was exactly the inevitable outcome Peter had anticipated from the moment the man had agreed to mate Derek on that hotel balcony. Now it had been explicitly said.

“One more thing,” Chris said sharply, setting down the pizza slice that had doubtless gone cold by now.

“Yes?” Peter asked carefully.

“I want to be clear about something,” Chris folded his arms and stared down his nose at them.

Laura’s spine straitened, and Peter felt himself tense expectantly right along with her.

“Just because I’m pack,” Chris said, words cool and measured, “does not make _this_ a pack house. Understand?”

Peter smirked, “Understood,”

“Hold up.” Laura put a stalling hand in the air. “What about the pool?”

Chris was as cool and serious as ever as he said, “Mine. You can use it by appointment only.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What about a standing daily appointment in the summer time?”

Chris pointed out the rear window, toward the far corner of pool yard. “You see that hot tub? I want to sit my naked ass in it whenever I damn well please, without risking my pesky in-laws dropping by unannounced.”

“That’s what the standing appointment time frame is for!”

“No.”

“Laura,” Peter raised a brow at her shrewdly. “Do you really want to press your luck and end up with an eyeful of your newly-mated baby brother getting screwed over a lawn chair?”

She scoffed, “Derek’s not that adventurous,”

Chris’ eyebrows went up to his hairline and pointed at a smudge of purple-pink paint on his jeans. “I wouldn’t count on it. We’re talking about the same omega who argued with you for over half an hour over paint chips?”

Peter eyed the lilac and commiserated, “It’s like we don’t even know him anymore.”

“It’s a ‘ _nice, gender neutral color_ ,’ Peter,” Chris informed him with a wink.

Laura looked the slightest bit disconcerted as she insisted. “That proves nothing.”

“The pack’s welcome to visit,” Chris said, getting them back on track, “But not unannounced, and not without mine or Derek’s expressed permission. That’s my final offer.”

“Deal,” Peter stuck out his hand eagerly. The moment Chris took it, he said, “Glad that’s taken care of. When do you want him? Tomorrow?”

Both his companions snorted.

Laura nudged Peter out of the way like he was an unruly child and squared off with Chris. “How about next weekend? That’ll give Alison and anyone else who matters enough notice.”

Chris nodded. “Yeah. Saturday night, maybe? After dark. Derek mentioned wanting to do it under moonlight.”

“Peter, do you hear this drivel? Derek’s a closet romantic!”

“Seems to be a lot of that going around lately.” Peter muttered, thinking about the decidedly romantic thoughts he’d been having about Stiles for weeks now.

Speaking of. Surely the omegas were done making a mess of the pack’s kitchen by now. Surely.

He left Laura and Chris then, bickering over ceremony details. A quick ten minute through the forest, as the wolf runs, and he was home just in time to overhear an eerily similar conversation happening between two other pack mates.

The laughing tenor of Stiles’ voice clarified into words as Peter crossed the farthest tree line within sight of the house. “—That’s all I’m saying! Think about it!”

“I have,” Derek grumbled, loud and insistent. “And it’s ridiculous. Even in my head,”

“You’re probably imagining the wrong thing. I know! I’ll take you shopping and we’ll find you the perfect pair. It’ll be my congratulatory mating gift to you both! Is that a thing, mating gifts? I don’t remember Peter and I getting gifts, or Scott and Isaac. Aw, it’s not a thing, is it?”

“No.”

“Well it should be. We should make it a thing. A new tradition, starting with you and Chris!”

“… No.”

“Why?!”

“…”

“Dude, you’re talking with your eyebrows again. Stop it. Use your words.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Then tell me why I can’t help you start a new mating tradition!”

“… You don’t think much about the words that come out of your mouth, do you.”

“… That doesn’t answer my question…”

“I don’t trust your judgement regarding appropriate mating gifts,”

“Pft. That’s only because you haven’t reaped the rewards yet. I’m telling you, big guy, play your cards right and you can have that alpha eating out of the palm of your hand—”

“Oh really?” Peter interrupted as he passed the entryway between dining area and living room.

“Hey, you!” Stiles twisted around in his chair to smile at him unrepentantly. “I was just extolling the joys of mated bliss to Derek while he cleans up.”

“Were you now.”

Derek was indeed cleaning up, the dishwasher running behind him as he gave the counters a final wipe down. The kitchen still smelled like fresh baked dough and sugar, but a white pastry box sat on the table in front of Stiles, neatly wrapped in pale green ribbon. Chris’s name was neatly scrawled across the top left corner in a darker green, the sharpie discarded on the table beside it.

“Apparently, you’re his besotted sex slave,” Derek informed Peter with an unamused expression.

“Oh, is that all,” Peter said mildly as he neared Stiles’ seated form.

The omega fluttered his eyelashes innocently, but as Peter loomed, on hand braced on the back of his chair and the other on the table, the boy’s scent turned warm and responsive. Peter growled low and hungrily for effect, and inwardly smirked as Stiles’ pupils dilated in a hurry.

Derek huffed and hurried over to rescue his religieuse. “Peter, get rid of him. Please. I’m begging you.”

Peter was busy licking his lips and watching Stiles stare at his mouth, but he was never one to miss an opportunity. He smirked and purred: “Derek’s not the one who should be begging me for anything,”

“Kill me now,” Derek groaned.

Stiles hoped to his feet, chin up and gaze daring as he put his throat so directly in front of Peter’s mouth. His breath was loud and excited from so close proximity.

Peter flashed red eyes at him and growled: “Run.”

Stiles took off in the direction of their bedroom, laughing breathlessly. Peter gripped the chair hard to keep himself in place and give him a head start.

Across the way, Derek shook his head at him, but there was a softness to his expression that made Peter think he was amused anyway. When Stiles hit the upstairs hallway and Peter inevitably went after him, Derek gave an unmistakable huff of amusement.

From start to finish, the whole damn pack was laughing today, when all Peter wanted was to get laid.

It wasn’t until later, when he was firmly knotted inside the squirming omega on his lap, that Peter pieced it all together. Of course the pack was high on life, relatively speaking. _A good day_ , Laura had said. As always, they were picking up on the energy and attitudes of their Pack Leader, and the trickle-down effect was subtly profound.

So much laughter. Joy. Comfort. Startling in its reappearance after such a long absence.

His pack was happy, he realized. _Peter_ was happy.


	21. Twenty-One

The following Friday night, Peter was wrapping up some paperwork for the county sheriff regarding supernatural crimes for the past quarter when Stiles came running through the door.

“Peeeeterrrrr!” he sang. He smelled like sweet omega, magic, and unbridled excitement as he rounded the desk with a jaunty little bounce.

It ended with the omega landing solidly in his alpha’s lap. Peter hastily tossed his pen onto the desk as Stiles’ weight sent his chair wheeling away fast. Obviously, he had to grab hold of the boy’s thin waist to keep him from tumbling as the chair spun. He had to.

“Mmm,” Peter moaned, tight-lipped as Stiles wriggled on top of him. “I’m still working, sweetheart.”

“I know,” Stiles said, kissing him and getting comfortable in a most distracting manner, “But I wanted to tell you something. I just got off the phone and I heard the best news. Well, maybe not the absolute best, but it’s pretty high up there. It’s exciting. I had to come and tell you! Then I promise, I’ll get out of your hair and leave you to it.”

“Oh?” Peter prompted, nibbling on Stiles’ jaw and rubbing his palms over hips, ass, and thighs. He smelled so damn good. Felt good too. “Do tell.”

Stiles bared his throat and sighed as Peter obligingly nipped and sucked there. “I mean… I could. But then you’d… you would…have to get back to work. Ugh.” He shivered deliciously as Peter’s teeth and tongue worked a bruise onto his neck. “A-and… and I’ll have to… to stop pro… procrastinating… homework,”

“You have school work left?” Peter asked, sounding far more collected than his eager cock suggested, trapped under Stiles’ wily, squirming weight.

“S-so much school work,” Stiles lamented distractedly.

“Hmm,” Peter hummed into a mouthful of pale flesh.

He wrapped an arm fully around Stiles’ middle, pinning them together and lifting the omega enough to get a hand under him. It took hardly a moment to unzip and free his cock.

As he did, Stiles whined and relaxed into Peter’s supernatural strength. They hadn’t talked about it yet, but it was become enormously obvious that Stiles loved when Peter showed off his superior strength by manhandling him. Sure enough, as Peter held him up a fresh bout of slick scented the air in a hurry.

“Do you trust me?” Peter whispered hotly against Stiles’ collarbone.

The omega nodded frantically, “Yeah. Yeah. Do it. Do everything.”

Peter popped a claw with an audible shtick and Stiles froze up.

“Shh,” Peter hissed, trying to sooth even though Stiles made no noise.

Stiles didn’t make a sound or move a muscle, he just hung there in Peter’s arm, waiting pliantly. He stayed that way for the entire three seconds it took his alpha to pierce the denim of his jeans a rip a clean seam free.

“Oh my God,” Stiles whispered, awed and scandalized.

“Shh,” Peter repeated.

He sheathed his claw and in the next breath tore Stiles’ jeans and underwear with brute force. The sound of ripping fabric was loud as a gunshot in the silent office.

Stiles dripped slick for him and gave a long, shaky moan.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Peter growled as he rubbed two fingers over the exposed hole. “Come here. Let me have you, just like this. Quick and dirty.”

Stiles slide onto his cock like he belonged there.

And it _was_ quick and dirty. Stiles didn’t so much ride him as he let Peter shake him up and down like a living flesh light. With every downward jolt he gasped like the air was being pushed out of him in a hurry. He clung to Peter’s shoulders and held on.

Peter felt his knot start to form and immediately pulled the omega off. Stiles whined as they parted, but the sound was cut off as Peter flipped him around like a doll and sat him back down again. He set Stiles’ hands on either armrest of the luxuriant office chair.

“Hold on,” He ordered, hands sliding to hips and fingers tucking into the belt loops of his jeans.

Stiles positively quaked for him, breathless and sweet and oh-so-open for him.

It was disgustingly easy to yank the omega back into his short, hard thrusts like that. Just a few times, Stiles’ knuckles white on the armrests while his hole clenched greedily, and that’s all it took. Peter’s knot filled in a rush that nearly made him light-headed.

He pulled Stiles’ back to his chest and clung to him as he began to orgasm.

“Alpha,” Stiles whined, patting at him everywhere he could reach.

Peter buried his face in his throat, breathing hard through his teeth. Through the haze of his pleasure, he had enough presence of mind to slink a hand down to grope Stiles’ cock through his jeans. Three, four, five good rubs of his palm, and the omega wailed as he came hard enough to leave a distinct wet patch in the layers of cloth covering him.

“Good boy,” Peter growled into his throat.

They sat there, panting and tied together in the office chair, for a good while. For the duration of the knot, they didn’t speak. They simply basked in the scent of sex and a happy mate bond, enjoying the postcoital lassitude in silence.

Eventually, the knot went down and Stiles stood up to peel his ruined clothes off his bottom half with a grimace.

Peter was in no hurry to tuck himself away as he watched with open appreciation. “What unbearably exciting thing did you have to tell me, love?”

Stiles paused in the middle of scratching at a patch of dried cum on his lower belly. 

“There was magic clinging to you when you came through the door,” Peter reminded him.

“Oh, right!” Stiles dropped the edge of his shirt with a flail, and Peter was sad to see the hem fall over that perfect cock of his. “I just talked to Deaton and Chris! They want me to help draw the ash circle for the ceremony tomorrow night!”

Peter blinked in surprise. “… Oh? I thought only Council-certified emissaries could do that.”

Stiles shook his head like an over eager pup. “Nope! Turns out, you just need someone with both magic _and_ a strong enough connection to the pack member in the circle. That, or an official emissary. But Chris was never officially part of Scott’s pack, right? So Natalie isn’t a shoe-in. He could pick anyone so long as they had magic and an minimal emotional attachment. And he picked ME!”

In the face of Stiles’ mile-a-minute explanation and obvious pride, Peter could only respond one way, even if he didn’t entirely appreciate the situation. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

Stiles scrubbed his hands over his face, because even an orgasm couldn’t keep him for long from becoming a ball of vibrating energy without an outlet. “My first ever official ceremony as a druid! Peter! Oh my Gawd!”

He was absolutely adorable in his flabbergasted excitement. Peter finally zipped up his pants so he could reached out and hug the omega around the middle, nuzzling into his abdomen affectionately.

“I’m so proud of you,” he mumbled into Stiles’ batman tee.

Stiles giggled, suddenly self-conscious. “I haven’t done anything yet,”

“You accepted the responsibility of officiating someone’s mating,” Peter stated nonchalantly. He was honestly more concerned with the path his hands were taking down Stiles’ body before sliding back up his naked thighs to the get under the shirt. “It’s a big deal.”

Stiles thought about that, absently toying with a lock of Peter’s hair. He had a far-off, considerate look on his face as he let Peter grope his backside without so much as a twitch.

“Yeah, I guess it is a big deal,” Stiles admitted, sounded pleasantly surprised at the realization.

“Hmm. It is.” Peter agreed lazily and closed his eyes as Stiles’ long fingers drove through his hair, scratching his scalp nicely. He rubbed his face into his omega’s tummy, kneaded his butt in his hands, and simply enjoyed the peaceful moment.

“… Is that how you feel about being Pack Leader?” Stiles asked, inquisitive and casual. No big deal.

Peter felt the contented purr in his throat get clogged there.

“Peter?”

He pulled back, staring up at Stiles. “What do you mean?”

The omega shrugged. “You know. What you said about accepting responsibility for a huge part in someone’s life and how it’s a big deal. I just figured you must have been talking from experience or something. I mean… Pack Leader to a bunch of orphaned kids, that’s like… way bigger, _world’s_ bigger than standing in for a mating.”

Peter had no problem following the rambling logic, but the inexplicable heaviness it inspired in the pit of his stomach was not so easily digested. He let Stiles go with a gentle pet along his hip and sat back in his chair. He felt oddly uncomfortable suddenly. 

“… am I wrong?” Stiles finished, stalling out as he caught onto the shift in Peter’s mood.

“No,” Peter assured, smile feeling tight on his lips.

Stiles responded with his awkward little smile, gaze going everywhere and fingers plucking at the corner of his plaid overshirt in a sudden fit of self-consciousness.

Peter eyed the paperwork on his desk. He should really be getting back to it…

“This is stupid.” Stiles chuckled nervously, dropping the edge of his shirt like it offended him.

Peter sighed, not sure what to say. “Stiles—”

“It’s fine.” the omega spoke over him, bundling up the remains of his jeans. “I don’t know what just happened, but it’s fine.”

Peter watched him head for the door and felt like an ass for no apparent reason he could think of.

“Actually, no.” Stiles spun, hand on the doorknob. He gave Peter a shrewd, probing look, and said smartly, “It’s not fine. I know I talk a lot, but I know how to listen too. You can talk to me, you know. You don’t have to pull away the first time my lack of brain-to-mouth filter trips over your baggage.”

The discomforted feeling intensified. The look Stiles leveled at him then made Peter feel small and exposed. Like he’d been pinned down, cut open and examined under a microscope. Like Stiles knew all his secrets, secretes Peter kept even from himself.

It was a fair bit terrifying.

But Peter had promised not very long ago that he’d do his best by this boy. He always tried to make good on his promises. Even if he fell short. He tried. Even if he had to scheme and manipulate and, yes, once or twice commit murder, he _tried_ to make good on his promises. To his pack. To his mate.

With a heavy sigh, Peter stood, eyes down on his unfinished paperwork. “Stiles… I’ll be up front with you,”

“I wish you would,”

“I’m worried you might think I’m a better man than I really am. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”

In the ensuing silence, Peter raised his gaze. He found Stiles staring at him, an unexpectedly calm and unreadable look on his face.

“Huh. Interesting,” the omega said, fingers tapping on the doorknob unconcernedly.

It was ridiculous. Stiles stood there, all young, fragile omega human, naked from the waist down and clutching his soiled jeans. There was more dignity in the stubborn lift of his chin than Peter presently felt in his entire body.

“Interesting?” Peter repeated, off-kilter.

“Yeah.” Stiles said without further explanation. He turned the knob and opened the door, “Goodnight, Peter.”

“…Good night, sweetheart,”

Stiles paused in the open doorway and looked back at him with a soft smile. “About what you said, before… just for what it’s worth, I think you’re onto something there. And I’m proud of you too.”

With that parting shot, Stiles left him alone in his office.

Peter fell back into his seat, feeling unexpectedly shaken. It took a while to pull himself together and get the paperwork done. By the time he called it a night and wandered up to bed, Stiles was passed out cold.

It was, he decided later, by design. He didn’t get a chance to speak to his mate again, not once, until they were ready to head over to the cabin for the mating ceremony.

“The others are running over in wolf form,” Peter said as he joined Stiles and Deaton out on the porch.

The two humans had been going over the ceremony most of the afternoon. There were some subtle changes to the wording, on account of Chris creating a fresh pack bond instead of Derek repurposing his as most omegas do. Mostly though, Deaton had been giving Stiles his first real instruction on harnessing his spark of power, until the omega knew he could execute the ceremony precisely as needed.

“You’re not joining them?” Stiles asked, surprised. “I already told Deaton I’d drive him over.”

Peter was only mildly disappointed. The ride to the cabin was a mater of mere minutes, hardly long enough to clear the air like Peter’s instincts were pressing on him to do. He still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened between them the previous night, and it seemed silly and immature to dismiss it as a simple misunderstanding.

“It’s fine,” he said instead, aiming for supportive. “Would you like me to drive while you two review the ceremony one more time?”

“Uh… sure,” Stiles agreed.

Instead, Deaton climbed into the front seat of Peter’s Mercedes while Stiles ran back into the house to grab something.

Peter didn’t like the careful way the druid was watching him. “Yes, Deaton?”

Deaton nodded, as if he’d decided something, and settled back in the seat staring out the windshield.

Peter frowned. God, but Council druids irritated him. He was thankful Stiles was satisfied as an Alpha mate and emissary.

“In hindsight, it’s fortunate you never caved to the Council’s suggestions to mate sooner,”

Peter’s frown only deepened unsolicited commentary. “Is it,” he deadpanned.

Deaton nodded serenely. “Stiles will be good for you, I think,”

“Ah,” Peter gave him his most fabricated charming smile. “Well, you know how much I care what you think.”

The druid’s mouth quirked with a hint of a smile. The nerve of him.

Peter told himself to leave it be, he really did. But few things got under his skin like the righteous self-possession of the Council. He caved to the itch and ask shortly: “… What makes you think that?”

Deaton was openly smirking now, just a little. It was a wealth of expression by his usual standards. “He already is.”

Before Peter could ask for further clarification—such as how, exactly, Deaton thought Stiles was already good for him, god dammit— Stiles was tripping over the porch steps on his way to the car. The omega didn’t comment on Deaton’s choice of seating arrangement or on his apparent disinterest in reviewing the magical minutia for the ceremony again.

They drove the fifteen minutes to the cabin in silence. It felt like forever. Peter knew for a fact it was a shorter trip on four feet, or even two, when cutting through the woods. Or at least it was for a wolf. By the time Peter parked behind Alison’s little Toyota, he’d grumpily realized he and Stiles might be in the midst of their first fight.

Except they weren’t fighting. This was their first…Disagreement? No—tiff? No.

Regardless, Stiles was definitely not talking to him, though he didn’t seem particularly mad. And Peter was… confused. He had the distinct feeling he should be apologizing to the omega. He just wasn’t sure what for.

Peter didn’t have the time to figure it out right then. Derek was standing on the front step of the cabin, and even from the car, Peter could feel the nerves radiating off him.

“Come on, pup,” Peter waved Derek toward him once he’d locked the Mercedes and pocketed the keys. “Let’s walk for a bit.”

Wordlessly, Derek hurried past the humans without so much as a nod of acknowledgement. His shoulder brushed Peter’s chest as he began to pass, similarly dismissive of the alpha, but Peter slowed him down with a hand on his nape. Derek didn’t so much lead him, as let Peter steer them into the surrounding woods.

They didn’t go far. The cabin was still visible through the trees, and if Peter strained, he could hear Laura singing to herself by the pool. No one would overhear if they spoke quietly, assuming Derek spoke at all.

Peter squeezed the back of Derek’s neck reassuringly and let go. Hands in his pockets, he waited.

His nephew shifted his weight uneasily. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, literally shook himself to dislodge the anxious tension weighing him down. The entire time, he kept his aquamarine eyes on the ground.

Patiently, Peter settled against a tree trunk and waited.

Eventually, Derek reluctantly met his eye. The set of his jaw was angry, but his eyes showed only agony and desperation.

Ten years ago, Peter hadn’t been able to see through his own turmoil to recognize his nephew’s deeper pain for what it was. Tender sympathy and care was not something that had come naturally to Peter. It had taken time and blood and more tears than either of them would admit to.

He had years of experience telling him better now, though. Peter had learned. Still was, actually.

For all his shielding and standoffish behavior, Derek was still an omega. Traumatized and touch-starved on top of it because Peter hadn’t known any better than to leave him be. Peter was shaken at the realization that nothing he could say at that moment would ease his omega packmate, his nephew, his family. Nothing.

But Peter could try. He hadn’t been able to when Derek’s wounds were fresh and raw, but he could try to be there for him now.

Peter didn’t waste his breath, simply held out his arms for the omega.

Derek came to him immediately. He fell into his Pack Alpha’s arms with a speed and ease that hit Peter like a punch to the gut. Peter tried not to think about how long Derek may have waited for exactly this kind of wordless, vulnerable welcome. Instead, he embraced Derek and held fast till the overwhelmed trembling stopped.

Long moments passed as they hugged, silent and heavy with emotions.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Derek eventually muttered without breaking free.

Peter squeezed him tighter. “You can,” he said confidently, “And you will. You’re ready.”

He felt Derek shake his head, nose rubbing into his shoulder.

“You’re ready, Derek.” Peter repeated, heart-felt. “You’re half in love with Chris already, and I promise the pack magic will help you get through tonight. You just have to be willing to try, and that’s half the battle right there,”

As they fell back into a fraught silence, Peter felt those words sinking into the pit in his stomach. He believed them, really, that trying was necessary and half the work of succeeding. That train of thought had kept him alive for a while now when he otherwise might have sunk and drowned. He believed them.

And yet, he was well aware that trying his best hadn’t always been enough. The past year’s Omega Debacle was just one example of his failings catching up to him.

Derek didn’t need that tid-bit of wisdom right now, though. Derek needed faith. Encouragement. He needed the tiny push that would get him into that circle so he could start the next stage of his life, one that had been waiting for him for too long now. 

With that thought, Peter took his nephew by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length. “You need this, pup. Don’t you?”

Derek wasn’t teary-eyed, but the emotion there was deep and aching even without the water works. He gave a curt nod of agreement.

“Then stop fretting,” Peter lifted the omega’s chin with a sharp, firm gesture, “Let yourself have this.”

He watched as Derek closed his eyes and took a deep, bracing breath. Derek was buff for his dynamic, and his chest heaved with the force of it. When he opened his eyes again, he looked calmer. His scent settled into something determined. There was still worry and fear lingering in his scent, but it was shrouded by a superior will.

Derek wore that determination like armor, and it protected him enough to carry his feet back to the cabin and around it’s edge to where everyone was waiting for them.

Peter walked him all the way to the edge of the circle, laid out on the back lawn not a stone’s throw from the pool yard. Chris was waiting for him there, and he patted Derek’s shoulder as he took the human alpha’s hand, Peter realized he was a fair bit anxious himself. 

He’d failed Derek so many times. Before becoming his Pack Alpha and since. He wasn’t sure he could handle failing Derek now, at his final moment as the sole alpha responsible for him.

“Show time,” Stiles whispered, coming up beside him and trailing fingers along Peter’s waistline in a soothing caress.

He was right, of course.

As Stiles stepped away, heading toward the far side of the circle, Deaton approached with his bag of sand. This time, when Peter retrieved his handful, the grains were finer, almost soft rather than the hard grain he’d come to expect. But of course: they weren’t breaking any pack ties this night.

It was a relief to realize. Peter didn’t think he could handle letting Derek go right then. Not entirely.

Peter looked from the fine, nearly white sand to the couple before him. Chris and Derek stared back at him, one warm and sympathetic and the other tense and expectant. Derek had shed his t-shirt before stepping into the circle, but there was nothing scandalous about the display. There was no romantic embrace or flirtatious glances between them. Their hands were clasped solidly, the distance between their bodies respectful yet familiar. It was, Peter hoped, enough.

Derek deserved Peter’s whole-hearted support and belief. So did Chris for that matter. Peter took his own advice, stopped fretting, and threw the sand.

Unlike every omega Peter had witnessed so far, Derek suffered no ill effects. As the minerals showered him and Chris, Derek’s eyes fluttered closed and he tilted his head with a curious frown, like he was trying to identify an unexpected sensation.

Beside him, Chris’ eyes went wide and he shuddered.

Slowly, Peter felt the pack magic creep along his spine with a quiet awareness of a new pack member. Someone his wolf was cautiously sounding out before claiming ownership.

“With the magic and authority of the Council and the Pack,” Deaton and Stiles intoned together, their harmonized voices echoing in the night air, “we bless this mating and welcome alpha Christopher Argent into the Pack, as partner and alpha to one and packmate to all,”

Peter stepped back hurriedly as the druids began walking. Deaton passed in front of him, and Peter was pleased to find that for once, his awareness of the ceremony’s magic at work was not particularly distracting. He was free to watch like any other spectator.

He chose to watch Stiles, naturally.

The omega was magical. His typical spastic flailing was suspiciously absent, and Stiles was almost unrecognizable. His face was carved in concentrated lines, eyes hyper focused as he walked his half of the circle in graceful, measured steps. His pale hand drizzled an endless stream of ash and herb that couldn’t possibly fit in the confines of his slender fingers. Peter absently noticed he was barefoot, and there was something so slightly odd about the way the lightness of his toes among the grass, as if the greenery were melding around him in welcome rather than being crushed under his weight; Peter couldn’t be bothered to check if Deaton exhibited the same effect. 

Peter was entranced. The pang in his chest when he remembered their awkward state of non-communication/possible fight did nothing to stop his cock from twitching with interest.

It couldn’t be helped. His omega had power, and it was hot.

In the recesses of his mind, Peter felt the pack bonds thrum agreeably and the tentative bond labeled ‘Chris’ solidified. Peter tore his eyes from Stiles in time to see Chris pry his mouth from Derek’s throat.

There was a minor bit of blood, hardly enough to flavor the air, where Chris’ human canines had dug in hard. The mark wouldn’t leave a spectacular scar like Stiles’ or Isaac’s had, but the location and magic were spot on enough to leave a permanent blue-grey bruise around the tiny puncture sights.

Other than that, it was exactly like any other mating bite.

Derek no longer seemed unaffected by the ceremony. He looked utterly stunned and… _galvanized_.

Chris was staring at his omega with a blatant hunger he wouldn’t have dared show earlier. He wiped his thumb over his lip to swipe up a drop of Derek’s blood and licked it off with a purr worthy of a mountain lion.

Pack magic or no, Derek’s body responded with a virtual flood of slick and omega sex pheromones.

The pack howled in celebration, Scott and Isaac joining in seamlessly. After a moment, Stiles added his own hooting laughter to the mix as he helpfully broke the circle with his outstretched, bare foot.

To everyone’s surprise (and in hindsight, no one’s), Derek took off running into the woods. Chris was hot on his heels, proving Derek wasn’t really trying to stay far ahead. Peter couldn’t help but laugh; because obviously, Derek _would_ consummate his mating where he was most at home: in nature.

He and Chris would have plenty of time to christen their new house later. He just hoped Derek led the chase far enough away from werewolf ears.

“Run, Chris! Run!” Erica screamed after them.

“Make him work for it, Der!” Stiles cried at the same time.

“Booze and hot tub time!” Laura yelled over them.

Peter was glad to see how quickly she got over her teary-eyed blubbering about seeing her baby brother mated off. Truly. Also, he thought she might have a brilliant idea there.

He turned to follow the crowd into the pool yard and damn nearly ran over Deaton.

“Fuck!” Peter hissed, pulling up short.

Deaton raised one unimpressed brow at him.

“Yes, Deaton?” Peter asked sharply, hands going to his hips.

The emissary gave him another of those disconcerting smiles. “Congratulations, Alpha Hale. Once again, you’ve risen to the challenge laid before you by the Council. And with ample time to spare,”

“Yep,” Stiles interjected, and Peter had to release his death grip on his own hip to make room for the boy under his arm. Then he added sassily, “And much good to show for it, too, I might add.”

The veil of amusement on Deaton’s face was the equivalent of a loud chuckle from anyone else. “Indeed,”

“I did pretty good tonight, didn’t I?” Stiles directed his grin up at both of them, Alpha and emissary.

His self-impressed tone didn’t hide the scent of his anxiety though as he sought validation. Peter was reminded how young he was—again—and gave the boy a tight squeeze in reassurance and approval.

“You were magnificent,” he promised.

Stiles blushed and rolled his eyes.

“Quite satisfactory,” Deaton agreed, “I’m impressed, Stiles. You have a basic appreciation for your spark that’s rare in someone entirely self-taught. I’ll look forward to training you when the time comes,”

“How about next week then!?” Stiles nearly bounced with eagerness.

“I think not,” Deaton stepped back with an infuriating, enigmatic glint in his eye. “You have greater concerns at the time being, I’m sure. School. Family. That sort of thing.”

Peter just knew he was hiding something, some kernel of knowledge, likely the sort that would make Peter’s life easier if he was made aware.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Stiles only deflated for a moment, his spine going straight and tall again as he shoved his hand in Peter’s back pocket and shook him, “I am newly mated, after all. And I fully intend to milk this honeymoon phase for as long as I can.”

Peter looked down his nose at the omega curiously, “Oh? How did I miss that memo?”

Stiles’ smirk was mischievous and his scent wild and sweet. “I had faith you’d figure it out eventually. You’re a smart wolf when you’re head’s not too far up your ass,”

“Perhaps I should be going,” Deaton said with a shrewd, humored glance at Peter, “I’ll leave you to your celebrations and your… _omega’s mercy_ , shall I.”

It wasn’t a question, which was good, because Peter couldn’t have answered; he was too busy being creeped out by Alan Deaton possibly speaking innuendos at him.

“Huh,” Stiles said as they watched Deaton disappear in woodsy shadow. “Weird guy. I like him.”

“That makes one of us.” Peter commented snidely.

The cheery sounds of music and mirth trickled out to them from the house and adjoined pool area, the party fully underway. Peter could hear splashing and laughter and Isaac moaning from the house about chlorine and swim trunks that no longer fit quite right. He could smell charcoal and grilling meat. There was, thankfully, no indication of Chris or Derek anywhere.

They were alone, his mate and himself.

Stiles slide out from under his arm and faced him, the easy humor falling from his face to be replaced with something shy and uncertain.

Peter brushed his thumb down his beauty-marked cheek.

“I’m sorry,” they said in unison.

Peter froze. Stiles blushed.

“… you go first,” the omega said with a tight, bashful smile. There was no anger or upset in his demeanor or scent. He was nothing but uncertain, sweetly submissive omega.

He gave Peter nothing to work from. It was infuriating. Damn omegas.

“I’m sorry,” Peter repeated. “I had the impression you were… upset. Or perhaps dissatisfied or hurt after our conversation last night.”

Stiles nodded along, gaze wandering off a little in thought. “I was. I mean, not really. Maybe. I don’t know. I just wanted you to talk to me, and it felt like you were pulling away and doing the opposite.”

“I know,” Peter acknowledged the truth in that with a wince. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetheart. I was… You said I had baggage, and I suppose some of it is a bit too heavy to burden you with yet…”

“You don’t have to protect me,” Stiles interjected sharply. “I’m your mate, not your kid.”

Peter stared at him for a moment. He took careful note of the steel in those whiskey-honey eyes and nodded to himself.

“Fair enough,” Peter admitted softly, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He couldn’t quite hold his omega’s gaze as he said, “But I do have to protect myself, Stiles. There are things I’d rather not dwell on…”

As he trailed off, Stiles stepped closer. One pale hand settled on Peter’s forearm as he murmured, “I know. And I’m sorry I pushed toward something you weren’t ready to talk about.”

It was so simple, so little said, and it was somehow enough. Peter felt the heavy ach that weighed down his gut all day ease.

He looped his arms around his mate and tugged him close. “I love you,”

Stiles’ smile was as warm as the sun. “I love you too.”

He kissed his mate then, and Stiles met him halfway and opened up for him readily. There was nothing but acceptance and warm comfort. In the background, the pack was boisterous and balanced and whole. It was a heady combination.

Peter wouldn’t wish a pack of thrice damned omegas on any alpha, but he supposed his had turned out alright.


	22. Epilogue: Five years later

He was going to kill them. Every. Last. One.

“I got it!”

“Hush!”

“Uh-Oh…”

“Tyyyleeerrr!? Look what you diiiiid!”

“It’s ruined!”

“Quiet!”

“Oopsie…”

Peter rolled over and shoved his head under a pillow without glancing at the clock. It was Sunday. He didn’t use clocks on Sundays. If it was earlier than nine in the morning, he was going to cry.

“You killed it! You killed breakfast!”

“Bad Tyler!”

And commit filicide.

“Daddy? Daddy, we made you breakfast, but Tyler killed it!”

“Up! Up, Daddy!”

He’d drag them out back by their cute little tails and leave them in the words to fend for themselves. 

“Daddy, are you dead?”

“Aaah! He’s dead! Papa! Papa! Daddy’s dead!”

“Nooo!”

As two small bodies landed on top of him, Peter grunted and gave up on his hopes of a lie-in. He opened his mouth, head beneath the pillow, and tried to smother himself in the ingrained scent of _home-mate-sex-warmth-mineminemine_. He was saved the indignity of a boner by the wiggling weights on his back and a third pair of little hands pinching his toes where they hung off the edge of the bed.

“What’s all this? Oh! Haha! Dylan, Ian, for god’s sake, get off Daddy before he suffocates for real,”

“Can’t. He’s dead.”

“Noooo! Daddy!?”

“Oh my God. Tyler, sweetie, calm down. Peter, get up. Show the kids you’re not dead,”

“Can’t” Peter grumbled petulantly, “I’m dead,”

“Told you!”

“Noooooooooooo! My Daddy!”

“Creeper wolf, so help me, if you don’t get up right now and comfort that baby—”

Peter finally peaked out from behind the pillow and instantly found himself in a stare-off with a pair of big blue eyes, the exact shade and shape as his own. “Ian,” he greeted with utmost seriousness in tone.

The four-year-old blinked back at him expectantly, entirely unphased to find his father alive and well.

“Operation Ankle Biter is a go,” he informed the tyke.

Ian hopped to his feet with all the pompous dignity his little body could muster and threw his fist in the air, screaming: “Ankle Biter!”

“No! Ian— Ah!” Stiles shrieked as their eldest son leapt off the bed at him. Peter heard his mate back peddling out the door in a hurry and smirked.

“Me too! Me too!” screamed Dylan, rolling off Peter and the bed in a much slower and carefully coordinated hurry.

With the twins suitably distracted and dispatched, Peter stretched out across the full length of his bed with a groan. He kept it short though, since he could still hear Tyler wailing mournfully from the vicinity of the floor. Sure enough, Peter scooted to the foot of the bed and was greeted by the pitifully adorable sight of a red-faced two-year old, sobbing and clutching at his wayward auburn locks in distress.

“Hey now,” Peter cooed, scooping the boy off the floor, “None of that, Ty. I’m alright. See?”

Tyler clutched at him with chubby fingers and his wailing stuttered into wobbly hiccups. Red-faced, dripping snot and his hair pointed in every direct, Tyler was the spitting image of Stiles when he had a cold. Peter had to bite his lip to keep from laughing aloud at the mental comparison, it was so very accurate.

Then Tyler had to suck the fun out of the room by burying his face in Peter’s neck and sniffling in profound relief: “Love you, Daddy.”

Peter’s heart positively melted. He kissed that messy mope of hair and replied dutifully, “And I love you, pup,”

The bedroom door was left ajar, however, and the tender moment came to an abrupt end as Erica popped her head in. “Hey, boss man. Did you know Laura and the puppies made breakfast? It looks like a bomb went off down there. Oh, hey, look! You got some of the debris all the way up here,”

Peter followed her gaze to a paper plate laying upside down on his bedroom floor, scrambled eggs and a sticky pancake caught between it and the carpet.

“This is what my life has become.” Peter said melodramatically as he patted Tyler’s pull-up clad butt. “Toddler wake-up calls at seven on a Sunday so I can scrape syrup off the floor.”

“If you’re quick, I’ll bet you can save the carpet from staining,” Erica encouraged with a wink before retreating hastily.

Peter sighed and nudged Tyler off his neck so he could catch the kid’s eye. “Do you think the carpet’s worth saving?” he asked conversationally.

Tyler sniffled and patted Peter’s cheek sympathetically. “No,”

“Me neither,” Peter agreed.

They left the mess on the floor and followed the sounds of familial nonsense downstairs. Peter, with Tyler on his hip, made it all the way to the living room before seeing anyone else.

They found Cora spread out on the couch, fast asleep with her feet in her new mate’s hands.

“Morning, Brett,” Peter said, eyeing his newest beta.

The young man nodded at him without ceasing the foot rub. “Morning, Alpha.”

Peter rolled his eyes, unsurprised. Three months since joining the pack officially, and Brett had yet to take him up on the offer of using his given name, instead insisting on giving Peter the “respect” appropriate to a Pack Leader. The young man came from a very traditional pack where such things mattered. Peter recently bet Chris twenty bucks he’d relax and lose the honorifics by the end of Cora’s pregnancy.

“I hear Laura made breakfast,” Peter peered cautiously in the direction of the kitchen. “Do I want to go in there?”

“Is it too early for a horror show?” Brett answered calmly. Peter rather liked him.

“You want to hang out here,” Boyd said, coming in from the porch with a pink bundle of babe nestled in his palm.

Peter would never get over it. By now, the entire supernatural community of California knew the Hale pack was rolling in pups lately, and any and all adult members were likely to have one attached to them at any given moment. It was still hilariously unexpected every time someone caught sight of Boyd with a one.

Especially Claudia.

Boyd was easily the biggest guy in the pack, and the baby girl had him wrapped so tightly around her finger it was a miracle she still had circulation in that tiny pinky. At barely two months old, Peter’s youngest and only daughter looked impossibly small where she fit between Boyd’s chest and one big hand.

Peter could relate. After the twin boys, Peter had a dark period where he mourned so many missed opportunities with Malia. Then came Tyler, and that grief became a wistful daydream. When Claudia finally showed up, Peter had been nothing short of hysterically ecstatic. He doted on the girl.

Peter set Tyler on his feet and reached for his daughter greedily. Tyler already had a few wayward toys in his hands by time Boyd passed her off with all the care and tenderness two male werewolves could manage. Which was, surprisingly, a hell of a lot.

“Seriously,” Boyd cautioned, stepping back toward the porch, “Don’t go in there. Stiles will put you to work cleaning it up.”

“That’s why we’re hiding out here,” Brett admitted unashamedly. “He already woke up Erica and Corey to help. He would have roped Mason into it too, except he ran off to work early.”

“Convenient.” Peter mused, not doubting it.

Corey and Mason were a mated pair who’d been with the pack for a little over two years. Neither was a werewolf, oddly enough, though Corey was a chimera shifter and Mason had a minor spark of his own. None of that mattered though, they were loyal and pack. They had been ever since Stiles brought them into the fold in a deranged, pregnancy-hormone fueled campaign to make the pack more _diverse,_ or something like that.

Peter maintained Stiles just wanted extra hands around the house to help manage the extra pups. The twins were a handful all on their own, and while Tyler’s arrival was eagerly anticipated, Stiles hadn’t been as eager to learn Derek would no longer be available for frequent babysitting with his own pup on the way.

Talia Argent was born two weeks and four days after her second-cousin Tyler. Stiles was still bitter about the timing some days.

“Boys!” Stiles screamed from the kitchen. “No rough housing in the kitchen! Knock it off or I’ll magic your butts to those chairs!”

Peter sighed, mentally preparing to go help his mate. “Tyler, have you eaten?”

“Food!”

“I’ll take that as a no,”

“No food. No food, Daddy.”

“Alright, come on.” Peter tousled the boy’s hair as the pup scampered by to lead him into the dining space.

He could smell the abundance of breakfast food well before he saw the mess. It wasn’t quite as bad as Boyd had warned, but that might be due to the three pack members already hard at work. He saw Erica scraping melted cheese off an overhead cupboard door while Laura evaded Corey’s attempts to fling excess pancake batter in her eyes.

“No rough housing in the kitchen!” Stiles yelled at them from the kitchen table. Peter wondered when his toddler-scolding tone had become so very similar to the one he used with the grown pack.

His mate was standing at the edge of the table, looming over Ian with a threatening hand on the back of the boy’s chair. The boy kept shooting his Papa glances between messy bites in a way that meant trouble the moment Stiles’ turned his back. That explained why Stiles was watching him eat like a hawk monitoring a skittish hare.

Across the table, Dylan sat up on his knees, using the extra height to lean bodily over his plate. Not that there was much point; Dylan was meticulous for a four-year-old, and each bite was small and clean, not a single crumb falling back on the plate. He was also ignoring his fork in favor of the pinching precision of his fingers, but no one’s perfect.

“Papa!” Tyler fused, arms outstretched as he ran at Stiles.

Peter watched Stiles, still so slender and gorgeous even after birthing four pups and whipping Peter’s rowdy pack into shape. His omega scooped up their son with an awkward and quick motion that would have been comical if not absolutely necessary to keep a diligent eye on Ian while still attending to the younger boy. He set Tyler on one jutting hip and Peter admired the strip of bare belly as his shirt bunched up above their child’s knee. Stiles didn’t seem to notice the exposure, or his mate’s immediate attention to it.

Five years since they’d been mated, and Stiles hadn’t really changed. Peter still wanted him like mad. Even when—maybe especially when—he was being cockblocked by their spawn. 

“Food, Papa,” Tyler demanded, tugging at Stile’s shirt and peering inside expectantly.

“Nope,” Stiles smacked a hand on his own chest, flattening the fabric and hiding his chest from the two-year-old. “That’s Claudia’s. Not for big boys, remember,”

Alright, so maybe Stiles had changed a little. He didn’t have the small breasts Isaac had developed when he’d first been heavy with child, but after two pregnancies in as many years, Stiles’ nipples were large and delightfully puffy.

“Food!” Tyler screamed angrily, tugging at the shirt again despite having weaned nearly a year ago.

“Eggs!” Stiles mocked back, and with a flick of his wrist an extra plate of scrambled fluff flew from the kitchen into his hand.

“Dammit, Stiles!” Laura hissed, startled.

“Dammit!” Ian repeated, grinning devilishly.

“Dammit!” Dylan parroted sweetly, the misguided little angel.

“Thanks, Laura,” Stiles glowered at her as he smacked the back of Ian’s head in mild rebuke.

Peter felt Claudia squirm against his chest and release a little mewl. “Breakfast time for the whole horde, huh?” Peter murmured to her, rubbing her back.

Stiles looked up and finally took notice of him with a sweet, teasing smile. “Morning, sleepy wolf. Wanna trade?”

“Not particularly,” Peter admitted, but he reclaimed Tyler before letting Stiles take Claudia just the same.

“You can have your fill of infant cuddles later,” Stiles said, crushing the toddler between them as he leaned in to place a pecking kiss on Peter’s lips. “Promise,”

“Hmm, and maybe some omega cuddles at some point too?” Peter couldn’t help the low drawl from watching Stiles’ hips sway as he turned away, subconsciously rocking their daughter.

Stiles shot him a sultry glance over his shoulder, “Promise,”

“Auntie!” Dylan wailed in distress, looking toward Laura. “They’re being gross again!”

“Oh, I know, sweetie!” Laura commiserated.

Ian cackled and pointed at Peter with mirthful condemnation, “So gross!”

“You’re gross,” Peter countered, shoving the boy’s face toward his plate. “Eat.”

It was the height of witty repartee when dealing with his children, and considering Claudia was still invading their sleep so much, Peter was rather proud of himself. It was Sunday and he hadn’t had his gallon of coffee yet.

“Enough talking, more eating,” Stiles reminded them all as he settled in the chair next to Ian.

Peter picked up the fresh plate and parked himself next to Dylan, Tyler in his lap. Their youngest son needed no further encouragement to pick up the little pastel fork and start shoveling eggs and cheese into his maw. He was neither as neat as Dylan nor as vicious as Ian about his food consumption.

Across the table, Claudia gurgled happily. Peter kept one eye on Tyler, but the majority of his attention was on Stiles as he unbuttoned his shirt for the girl. He got sight of one bruised, swollen teat just before the view was obstructed by Claudia’s head. God, but Peter loved them.

Erica jostled the table as she joined them with a platter of hot pancakes and bacon. “I’m starved.”

“I’m not cleaning this by myself!” Laura grumbled, scrubbing at a skillet.

Corey shrugged, standing at the bar while eating a pancake and egg sandwich with his hands. “I’m eating while it’s hot. You’re the idiot who ate before helped arrive.”

“Hey, I shouldn’t even be on clean-up duty. I cooked!” She argued, throwing the sponge in the sink.

“You’re also the instigator who encouraged the twins to have a food fight,” Stiles commented sagely. “So clean up your mess,”

“See if I babysit for your precious _omega cuddles_ ,” She sneered, returning to the skillet.

“I’m not babysitting,” Corey added. “I’m going back to bed.”

“I can take the boys for a long run,” Erica volunteered with a conspiratorial, syrupy grin. “So long as I don’t have to help Laura finish in the kitchen.”

“Deal!” Stiles gave the beta an approving fist bump over Claudia’s head.

“Bite, Daddy?” Tyler said at the same time, nearly sticking his fork and a lump of food up Peter’s nose.

Without hesitation, Peter reared back to avoid the jab, caught that chubby wrist and bit off the bite with an exaggerated chomp.

Tyler squealed and Dylan’s hand grasped his shoulder as the older boy leaned in excitedly with his own finger-full of egg. “Me too, Dad! Papa gave me too much food,”

What kind of father would refuse that kind of offer. Conditionally. Peter jerked his head away, lips tight, and grunted, “Fork, Dylan,”

At the same time, Stiles echoed the sentiment, snipping: “Use your fork.”

So it was that Peter’s lazy Sunday breakfast in bed became breakfast at the table being fed bite-by-bite at his children’s hands. Oh. And there was that one pancake he stole off Stiles’ plate with his fingers that had Dylan quick to complain about Peter’s hypocrisy.

It was a good morning. It wasn’t as good as a morning spent buried between Stiles’ legs, but it was good nonetheless.

Claudia fussed until Stiles dropped his fork to pat her bum. Peter watched his mate coo and smile at their daughter and for a moment reconsidered the exact ranking and definition of what made a good Sunday morning.

It was one of those annoyingly random moments that always caught Peter up, unexpected and devastating. He’d be living his life, like every day, and suddenly he’d look around and be knocked stupid by the realization that it wasn’t all a dream.

Six years ago, Peter expected to still be running himself to exhaustion every week for the next decade plus. He hadn’t planned on a bunch of omegas making a nuisance and forcing his life down a steeper, if healthier, path.

He hadn’t known Isaac would leave and take to parenthood with the zeal of a prophet to his god. Camden, nearly five years old now, three-years-old Melody, and a third on the way were his editions to the McCall Pack, and Isaac had never been happier.

Peter hadn’t even known that Malia was an omega back then, not to mention that she’d overcome it in such a spectacular fashion. LA now hosted a full wolf pack, six alphas and one omega strong, and while Deucalion still ruled his back with a keen mind and stern constitution, it was Malia who enforced that rule to often unexpected and devastating effect. They made a frightfully good team, after all was said and done.

Malia had only walked out on her mate once. She’d shown up unannounced, pissed and tightlipped, and spent the weekend spreading her hissy fit around Peter’s house and maxing out Duke’s credit card out of spite. She still wasn’t remotely interested in children-- anyone's, for that matter-- but the incident still brought the twins several high-end toys and designer clothes that fit them for fewer weeks than the number on the price tags.

And Derek…. Peter had no clue at the time that his desperate ploy to hook Chris as his mate would literally save the poor omega’s life. A year into their mating, Chris had sought Peter out for a rare shoulder to lean on after Derek admitted to a history of suicidal thoughts. He’d never been so close to going through with it as he’d been when preparing for the Council to force him to mate or disband his childhood pack.

Chris had put a hold on those plans though. He’d been the only alpha in the world beside Peter with such a thorough knowledge and appreciation of his struggles, and for a while it was enough.

When it wasn’t, when Derek wanted more, needed more, Chris was there. Nine months later, Talia was born; Derek took one look at her blond head and big aquamarine eyes and agreed to go back to therapy.

“Daddy?” Dylan asked, standing on his chair and leaning heavily on Peter’s shoulder so he could rub their cheeks together, obnoxiously adorable as always.

“Yes, dear?” Peter said attentively as he pried his mind off memory lane and into the present.

“Why doesn’t Claudia eat eggs and cakes?”

“Because she’s too little.”

“Why’s she too little?”

“Because all babies start that way. You remember how Tyler used to be that small.”

Dylan lifted his head to eye his sister dubiously.

Ian, blunt as ever, glanced at the babe too, then at Tyler and snorted. “Ty was never that small.”

“Too right,” Stiles agreed, “his head was nearly as big as _yours_ ,”

Ian frowned suspiciously at Stiles’ tone. He may have been confused by the implication that flew over his child head, but he amazingly astute at recognizing when he was being teased regardless. Ian was born clever like that, and he was going to do great and likely terrible things with it one day.

“Claudia’s our little runt,” Stiles said, fond and proud.

Peter watched the small, besotted smile on his mate’s face as he looked down at the pup nursing in his arms. Stiles’ long, thin fingers brushed over the fine dark hair on her scalp and Peter thought there was something just so soothing and hypnotic about the two of them like that. By now, he recognized the look in his omega’s eyes, the thinly hidden sap and overwhelming joy. Stiles never looked softer than when he was falling in love all over again with one of their children.

Tyler whined a little, slapping at Peter’s arm where it was squeezing him just a tiny bit too tight. Higher up, Dylan nuzzled behind his ear with a rude sniff, doubtlessly soaking up whatever sentimental chemo-signals his alpha parent was giving off. Peter glanced away from an oblivious Stiles and caught Ian’s eye; the little twerp smirked at him, knowing and just a tad bit judgmental for a four-year-old.

“Just remember,” Peter told his slightly-eldest son with a flash of red eyes, “I know where you sleep, brat,”

Ian giggled like he wasn’t all of forty pounds being threatened by an apex predator.

“Excuse me?” Stiles interrupted, narrowing his eyes at Peter with cool papa-bear appraisal.

“Nothing,” Peter and Ian said with matching angelic smiles

Ian leaned over and kissed Stiles’ bicep with a sweet “Love you, Papa,” as he shot Peter a wicked smirk.

Six years ago—hell, even four years ago— Peter never would have suspected he’d be getting out-maneuvered by a four-year-old and find himself perversely proud about it. He blamed Stiles entirely for the way his life had turned out.

Goddamn omegas. Peter was still reaping the consequences from whole ridiculous debacle.

Thank God. 


End file.
